Like White Lions
by Hahren Jezek
Summary: The Kossith prodigy of an infamous highway woman, Mauve struggles to find her purpose in a country overcome by the Blight. Joined by Alistair, Daveth, Genevieve, and a number of other companions, they find themselves challenged on every level as all of Ferelden seems to try and rend itself in half.
1. Chapter 1

Finding Purpose - Prologue

Mauve stood at the center of the platform, her bare feet touching the crack of the trap door. Leveling the crowd with an intense violet gaze, the bronze-skinned giant tried to pick out a person among them that seemed fitting to be the very last that she saw.

"—And for the murder of Timothy Smith, Devon Mason, Leuric Rhys, and Donnic Harrows, all from the town of Eagle's Nest," The mayor of this newest town droned on.

It was the thirteenth township in a list that encompassed fifteen, total… Or was it sixteen? Mauve couldn't be certain any longer. She had followed Raven loyally for years, thinking little to nothing of how the infamous highwaywoman's actions affected those in less aggressive positions. The white-haired woman tipped her head back some when the gently swaying noose caught on the tip of one of her horns, and the sudden movement of the woman that, thus far, had been as still as a slab of granite startled a few of the women in the front of the lines. A man with dark skin and a full beard stared back at her. She caught his gaze, violet eyes narrowing in consideration.

The symbol of the gryphon was etched into the breastplate he wore.

The last time she had seen that symbol, it had been on the tabards of the three men who had finally managed to track her down after she had held up and murdered another of their order along the northern road to Denerim.

Fitting, then, that he would be the last sight.

"And last, for the murder of Terrok Vithras, Senior Grey Warden, traveling the long road to Denerim to join the rest of the Wardens before they marched to Ostagar with the King's men." With a low growl in his throat, the Mayor folded the impossibly long list and turned a baleful, fearful look towards the Qunari woman waiting patiently at the center of the platform. Her face, though of such a foreign race, might have been pretty, if it weren't for the unapologetic look in her eyes.

"My Lord Mayor," The bearded man spoke out, striding forward to the platform. He ascended it quickly before there could be protest. Standing up with the three other people—The Qunari, the Mayor, and the executioner—Duncan had to tip his head back to be able to look the woman called Mauve in the eyes. He took his time in studying her. She stood head, chest, and shoulders above the three men on the platform, and though they had crammed her into ill-fitting mens' trousers and a tunic someone had dug out of a refuse pile, he could see the natural born strength and ferocity that her bloodline afforded her, and a cunning glint in her eyes.

"I would like to have a word with your prisoner prior to her execution, I will be brief," the Warden Commander assured the Mayor, clapping his hand on the older man's shoulder in a gesture of goodwill before turning his eyes back to Mauve.

Terrok had been a good man and a friend of Duncan's for many years. More than that, he was an excellent soldier. It would have taken a great amount of skill to not only best him in combat, but to end his life. It was difficult for him to believe that a lone woman could have inflicted as much damage as this, but that was the story that they told.

"My Lady, the last man you murdered, Terrok Vithras of the Grey Wardens," Duncan reminded her, coming to stand beside her. The bronze-skinned giant turned her head down towards him, and her eyes were intense and all encompassing.

"I remember him, Warden," Her voice was calm and composed, the voice of one who had accepted their fate, whether or not they were pleased with what it was.

"I am to understand that it was you alone that killed him? There was no ambush, no other that aided you in this task?" If it was true, Duncan added in thought, his eyes narrowing, her death would wait for another day, and it would be far less humane than a rope snapping her neck. At most, he hoped that she would thin the ranks of the Darkspawn prior to getting skewered.

Mauve nodded once, and behind her, her wrists flexed in their bonds.

Regarding her with an expression that Mauve couldn't truly understand, Duncan turned back to the Mayor with a grim determination that spoke volumes as an explanation. He intended to put her to use before she was to die. Her eyes gave a slow blink.

"My Lord Mayor, I invoke the Rite of Conscription," Duncan started, holding up a hand to silence the flurry of outraged protests that the Mayor would have levied against him, if given the chance, "This woman cut down a senior member of my order alone. It is not easy to best my men in combat. I will not see her life wasted when a more fitting repentance for slaughtering the innocent, as she has, would be to fight against the Darkspawn. I assure you, when she falls, it will be a death more fitting than the rope," he cast an idle gesture at the still swaying rope, and with a glance up at the beam that sported it, he wondered briefly if it would even support the giant's weight.

"And if she doesn't fall, Warden? What then?" The Mayor was bristling, his lips pursing together several times, over and over. The thought made the bearded man smile, and Mauve tipped her head in response, her chin rising slightly higher.

With a quick flick of his wrist and a hidden knife exposed, Duncan cut the bonds that held her wrists together behind her back. Moving slowly so as not to frighten anyone near her into attacking, Mauve brought her hands up in front of her and rubbed the raw flesh of her hands, eventually looking back to Duncan, who produced a new rope and looped it around her neck, tightening it with a slight jerk.

"We all die in time, Lord Mayor."


	2. Act 1, Chapter 1

Act 1, Chapter 1

To her surprise, Duncan only kept the rope around her neck until they managed to escape the outraged, prying eyes and hissed whispers of the townspeople. She said nothing of it. Seeing the look in his conscript's eyes, however, Duncan grunted in response, all of the charismatic and amicable expressions from the executioner's platform long gone, and replaced by a look Mauve had seen many times before.

Anger, disdain, and grief in the form of hatred.

By the time they had set up camp for the night, after a full ten hours of a forced march south, Mauve had felt the need to keep her eyes on his hands at all times, as frequently as they drifted to his blades. He had not saved her from the noose for any positive reason on her behalf. To him, she was the woman that had murdered his comrade, and countless innocent people, and for what?

Mauve didn't know. She couldn't tell him, even if he had asked her.

Now, she stood guard while he slept, a towering behemoth staring out into the night, thinking to herself how amusing it was that her life had spun itself on its head. The day prior, she had been the cloaked figure in the night that traveling parties had to keep watch for. Tonight, she was a forced conscript, drawing in lung-fulls of air that had chilled so much once the sun left the world that it burned her chest with a cold fire.

A twig snapped, and her eyes flicked towards it. After a moment of silence, a small deer stepped forward, hesitantly at first, and then growing bolder, his tail twitching and flicking behind him in fascination at this strange piece of sunlight that grew from the earth, low to the ground and guarded by a ring of rocks. The barest of smiles touched at Mauve's lips, and she remained perfectly still and silent, allowing the creature to explore as it pleased.

A grunt from Duncan ended its curious adventure.

As the bearded man sat up and rubbed his temples, Mauve clicked her tongue once, eyes following after the deer as it bound away. A shame; it would likely be the only entertainment she saw for the rest of her watch. Unable to bring herself to trust Duncan, despite how adamant he was that she survive long enough to undergo the joining, Mauve doubted that she would close both of her eyes at once at any point during the night when she finally was able to lie her head against her arm.

"Maker take pity on you if you do survive," Duncan whispered, still sitting up on the blanket that he had set out for himself once his watch had ended.

Hearing the strain in his tone, the way his words fell as heavy as slabs of marble, Mauve slowly turned to fix him with her intense stare, violet eyes narrowing ever so slightly. Knowing full well that if any bandits did traipse this road, they would be amateurs at the very best (all of the best pickings were towards the north, from one noble's homestead to the next, and on the way to the city), Mauve stepped towards the older man and crouched down beside him.

"There's been talk of fiends in the wilds, it's what's made the roads so dangerous for people like me, what with all of the soldiers marching to Ostagar," Mauve started, her head tilting slightly to the left, much like a cat's, "You're a seasoned soldier, why do you mutter and sulk?" the Kossith prompted him, speaking with the same brutality that she lived her life with, accustomed more to berating others and being berated in return. Raven had seen to it that all of her men were immune to such things. If anything killed them, it would be the skill of their opponent, and not mind games that tore them apart from the inside, or temptations to prove themselves that brought them straight into a trap.

As it happened, her conditioning had been outrageously successful, with one drawback.

Once someone was a part of her world, Raven's games made it nearly impossible for them to ever adjust to normal life again, should they ever decide to leave.

"For a woman just spared the noose, I would expect, at the very least, some small bit of manners," Duncan snapped. It seemed to Mauve that his beard may have started to bristle, and the same hateful glimmer in his eyes returned, sparkling so intently that were it not for his self-control and determination, he might have tried to throttle her on the spot.

"You spared me the noose so that you could put me to use before ultimately getting me killed, you said it yourself, and I am no fool. Nothing comes freely," Mauve returned evenly, fixing him with an impatient expression. White tendrils of hair fell forward around the protruding horns that sloped back from her forehead, her lips fixing themselves into a positively irate position.

Duncan held her gaze for long moments before eventually giving up and rising to his feet. What she said was true. If she didn't die at Ostagar, as he suspected she might, he would ensure that she met her end in a particularly gruesome fashion. The outrage he felt at learning of Terrok's death still burned brightly in his mind, and he was finding it increasingly hard to look Mauve in the eyes without seeing Terrok's face trapped within them, snarling up at her as he fought for his life.

"You can tell me what it is that you're grumbling about every other hour, or you can stay silent about it," Mauve flexed her thighs and stood up straight, as well, towering over the Grey Warden and placing her hands on her hips. "The fact of the matter is that I would be a better resource to you if you told me more about what I'm walking into."

The common sense she held infuriated him, as did the confidence she had in her own position. Avoiding looking her in the face again to try and settle the seething rage that he felt bubbling underneath his skin, Duncan walked to the very edge of the firelight, staring out into the night, weighing his options in his mind.

Behind him, Mauve hooked her thumbs into the mens' trousers that she still hadn't been able to replace, regardless of the fact that they had had to be cut several times to fit over her hips, and even then, they fell shorter than they should have. Used to wardrobe issues by now, Mauve could only shift her weight from one booted foot to the other, nostrils flaring with hot-blooded impatience. This man had taken her from a familiar life and a solid end to it, only to shove her into a new role, which he told her little to nothing about.

"Your life will be as bloody and gruesome as it has been since your mother pushed you into the world, more's the pity," he spoke to her, though continued to refuse to look in her direction. He didn't want to see her eyes staring back at him. "The Darkspawn are heinous creatures that will stop at nothing to destroy everything that they touch. As a Grey Warden, you will fight against them, as we all do."

"I'll need weapons for that," Mauve returned, and while her voice was even, there was a cold sense of amusement that she had no doubt the older man picked up on, judging by the way one of his shoulders stiffened slightly more than the other, rising higher. She watched him crack his neck, turning to face her sternly.

"In time." Duncan pursed his lips, heavy brows lowering.

For long moments, they stared at each other, sizing each other up, and though her boldness infuriated him, Duncan was satisfied that he had made the right choice. If she survived the joining, her skill would be a valuable asset, and in time, perhaps she could be molded to something that was less… abrasive.

"I will keep watch, you may rest until morning," Duncan muttered, only to arch a brow as Mauve shook her head from side to side, arms crossing underneath her breasts in a steady defiance.

"Qunari don't need much," she explained shortly, chin rising a little higher in the air, as though daring him to challenge what she knew for a fact. It was true, at the very least. The Kossith were a breed that wasted nothing, including energy. Though she had never been around another of her kind for very long (as it turned out, most of the Kossith Mauve encountered were Tal'Vashosh, and while she didn't know the term or what it meant, having no knowledge of the Qun herself, Mauve had no intentions of finding out, especially since it seemed all the other giants wanted to do was kill her on the spot), Mauve was aware from personal experience that food, water, and sleep were all things that she could go without for extended periods of time with no ill effects.

Giving up entirely, Duncan threw his hands up in the air. Turning around, he walked out into the night and along the road to the south. He knew he would not sleep again in the night, as loud as the calling was becoming, and if his infuriating conscript refused to even attempt to rest, he would not waste time standing and guarding while she sat idly on her rear or stargazed.

Smirking, the Kossith woman stooped down to grab the mat that Duncan had left unrolled on the ground, slinging it over her shoulder as she walked after him. In another two days, if they kept pace, they would reach Ostagar.

"The king's forces have clashed with the darkspawn several times, but it is here that the bulk of the horde resides," They had finally reached the mighty ruins of Ostagar, built by the Tevinter Imperium long before either of them had taken their first life's breath. Originally intended to keep the wilders from invading the north, it was ironic to Mauve that they had chosen the same historic location to fight against this new threat, "There are only a few Grey Wardens within Ferelden, but all of us are here."

Mauve looked past the cobblestone path that they walked on, each of them stretching their legs farther, eager to get the last leg of the journey over with and to finally rid themselves of each other. Just as Duncan had little patience for Mauve's domineering presence, Mauve had absolutely no time to try to kiss the man's boots and make nice with him.

"This Blight must be stopped here and now, if it spreads to the north, Ferelden will fall."

The man at her side was grim; she took it as a poor sign for the campaign she had been thrust into. Commanders that she had worked under in the past could be brisk and grumpy, but there was a difference between their sour attitudes at the possibility of failure, and the grim nature Duncan showed in his expectations of it. Still, despite pressing him for his honest feelings on the situation they were walking into, he said nothing to her.

Violet eyes flicked down to a young man in elaborate golden armor, striding towards them with a smile on his face. The King, she assumed. Mauve had seen a painting of him once before in an unscrupulous tavern, and it seemed that the artist had been fairly successful at capturing his likeness. Behind him, several honor guards plodded along, each of them with their weapons already drawn. With how close the darkspawn were, she saw no reason why they shouldn't have. Moreover, she wondered why such an important figurehead would be walking about, leaving the safety of his camp to begin with.

"Ho there, Duncan!" the smiling king called out, reaching out a gauntlet-covered hand to clasp the older man's wrist in a familiar, though professional embrace. The look in his eyes was full of admiration, and as Mauve looked between the two men, the corner of her mouth twitched, watching how uncomfortable Duncan looked at the special treatment he was receiving. Perhaps he wasn't used to it—or perhaps he didn't think he deserved it.

"King Cailin! I didn't expect a—" before he could finish, the younger man simply cut him off, smiling all the while.

"A royal welcome? I was beginning to worry you'd miss all the fun," the gentle teasing brought a smile to the Kossith's lips. He was young and ambitious, and in a way, he reminded her of Raven. But then, since her demise, Mauve had been seeing pieces of Raven almost everywhere that she looked.

"Not if I could help it, Your Majesty…" his tone was heavy once more, and Mauve shifted to her right, as though a step in the opposite direction would rid herself of the weight of whatever knowledge it was that Duncan held in his heart.

"Then I'll have the Mighty Duncan at my side in battle after all! Glorious!" the King tossed his head, his gaze sweeping to his left, and then up at Mauve's face, curiosity brimming in his eyes as though he were a child seeing the spring festival for the very first time. "The other wardens told me that you'd found a promising recruit, I take it this is… she?" he ventured, looking between Duncan's seething amber eyes and Mauve's brutal violet ones.

"I've heard much of your people, do you mind if I…?" Cailin trailed off, not waiting for a response from the giant woman as he reached up and grabbed onto the base of one of her horns, tugging her head down to be level with his own as he examined the protrusion, a smile full of wonderment plastered over his face.

Mauve grunted, eyes flaring wide as her head was suddenly tugged down to stare this human king in the face. Tossing her head, she tried to exercise patience enough to put up with the invasive groping. Despite her best efforts, her discomfort and severe agitation must have shown on her face, as the King's eyes laughed right back at her.

"Oh, you'll have to get a handle on that temper of yours, My Lady, I won't be the first to grab your horns," the King broke out into a fit of laughter, releasing Mauve's horn and patting her shoulder in a good natured way. With a chuckle, he turned back towards Duncan, heaving a pleasant sigh.

Though her horns had no feeling, after a lifetime of being the only sentient being around that held them, Mauve had become very particular. She did not like having them touched, she did not enjoy questions about them, and she was not one that was fond of being gawked at. It was part of the reason a lifetime in the wilds with very little company had appealed to her. Scowling and bringing a hand up to rub the base of her horn, Mauve muttered an uncouth curse.

"I'm sorry to cut this short, but I must be on my way. If I linger much longer, Loghain may send out a search party," the King rolled his eyes, though after his invasive grabbing, Mauve was far less inclined to compare any part of him to her beloved mentor. Watching him with a sulking expression, Mauve's intense glare was interrupted when Duncan spoke up.

"Eamon sends word from Redcliffe, and reminds you that his forces could be here within a week,"

"Ha! Eamon just wants in on the glory," Cailin shook his head, staring out across the bridge and back towards the center hub of the camp, "We've won three battles against these monsters, and tomorrow will be no different," The younger man spoke boldly, and it made Mauve tip her head curiously, brushing her hair behind her horns as she looked back to Duncan. The way he had spoken of the Darkspawn, of the Blight, it had seemed as though he was certain that their doom was falling down on them from all sides.

That this obnoxious man could seem so confident, so assured of victory began to unsettle her. While she didn't trust the dire moods Duncan showed at every hour, one of these men had to be wrong. For their sake, she hoped it was exaggeration on Duncan's part. Mauve tuned out the rest of what the two men had said, going over what she knew of these fiends in her mind, staring off at a patch of weeds while the two men spoke.

"—And I'd consider maybe manicuring those horns if you ever have the time!"

"I'll have to try that horn thing on you next time," Duncan hummed, walking forward and beckoning the Kossith woman to follow after him.

"Touch them and I'll gut you with them," Mauve warned him. Despite the threat to her tone, it seemed that the King's grabby hands had broken the tension between the Warden Commander and his newest recruit, and with the faintest of smiles, the two of them looked after the king, wondering if it had been intentional on his part.

The moment didn't last.

"What the king said is true, we've won several battles against these monsters," Duncan grumbled reluctantly, glancing up at Mauve before coming to a pause at the start of the massive bridge. Reaching out a hand, he grasped Mauve's forearm, and when he caught her eye, a pang of guilt throbbed in his chest. Had it been fair to take her from such a quick and painless death and to thrust her into this terrible war? As angry as he had been seeing what had become of his friend and comrade, even he had trouble rationalizing why he had decided to conscript her.

She would have a violent death. They all would.

Every warden would.

"Then why is it you've been muttering and so sure of our doom?" Mauve knitted her brows together, placing her hands on her hips and staring down at the older man.

"Despite the victories, the darkspawn horde grows larger with each passing day. By nightfall, they look to outnumber us. I know there is an Arch Demon behind this, but I cannot ask the King to act solely on my feelings," the commander heaved a sigh, copying her posture and looking off in the same direction, amber eyes and violet both locking onto the crumbling statue, its head having long since deteriorated into nothing but pebbles at its feet.

"Perhaps if you tied it to my horns, or a bright, colorful object, he might pay attention long enough," Mauve snorted, eyes rolling. She started off down the path again, trying to ignore the ill will in her gut, but Duncan's hand stopped her again, and the older man forced her to look him in the eye.

"Mauve… I am…" Duncan paused and drew in a slow breath, his eyes shutting for a moment as he moved his hand up to her shoulder, gripping it tightly, as though any moment she was going to disappear like dust on the wind.

"I'm so sorry," he finished quietly.

Lowering her eyes from his, Mauve swallowed roughly and nodded once.

"You needn't be. I came into this world bloody and screaming, it's only fitting that I leave it the same way," she tried to offer comfort to the older man, but the forced attempt was awkward, at best.

"You will," Duncan promised her.

And she believed him.


	3. Act 1, Chapter 2

Act 1, Chapter 2

Sten's dreams were of Parvollen and Seheron.

He heard the merchants busily working their crafts, distributing it amongst the people based on their needs. He felt the sun against his skin, and a trickle of sweat down the middle of his back. The Qunari chanted the Qun as they worked, each of them a spec of blood in the body of the being, all working together to attain perfection.

When he drew in a deep breath, expecting to smell sweet incense and spices, Sten's nose was assaulted with the odor of damp hay, mold, and cow shit.

Feeling almost insulted at the rudeness of this awakening, and the reminder of the horrible damp country he had come to in search of the answer to the Arishok's question. What is the Blight. Thus far, it was a terrible headache, and a startling disappointment. Their ship had landed in a filthy port of a northern city, so corrupt and full of filth that Sten and the company that he led had marched themselves straight out of the walls and into the countryside as quickly as they had stepped off of the last wooden plank of the dock.

From there, it had been long walks through countryside that was wasted with vast nothingness. Day and night, Sten and his men stopped only to eat and for a brief break in the monotony. For two weeks, they saw nothing of the grotesque fiends that farmers and adventurers whispered about, all in fearful tones.

With as disorganized, filthy, cold, and wet as their country was proving itself to be, Sten could see why they would be fearful. There was no way that these people could withstand any sort of assault and survive it. He made note of this fact, resolving to add it to his final report. Ferelden would make a decent place to capture as a foothold, when the time came.

Then, as though their presence had tempted fate for far too long, Sten saw and came to understand what a Darkspawn was.

They came up from the ground, sprouting from shadows in the night and shrieking so loudly that it threatened to rupture his sensitive eardrums. Spared from that agony, Sten bore witness firsthand to the ferocity and vicious nature of the opponent he was to study. He did not know fear, as those of the Qun accept whatever their fate is to be, but he knew confusion. His men, all seasoned warriors, were cut down during the bloody battle, and as Sten used the last of his strength to cut the last of the shrieking monsters in half, he fell among his brethren.

And now, as he finally pried his eyes open, he was inside of a barn, and everything smelled of cow shit.

"Pashera," he cursed, conscious now of the intense throbbing that seemed to resonate throughout his entire body, and the itchiness his skin had developed after lying in the wet hay for so long. Lying still for several more moments, Sten's heavily muscled chest rose and fell slowly with each controlled, measured breath.

Pushing himself up to a sitting position, Sten's forehead thumped against the side of a slop-trough, making him grunt and scowl, especially as a glimmer of the bright sunlight filtered through a crack in the wooden boards of the barn, shining directly into his eyes.

If the country didn't kill him first, he decided, he was going to set fire to all of Ferelden.

Being far more careful, the giant rose to a crouched position, taking in his immediate surroundings. The barn was fairly old and not well maintained by Qunari standards, but then, Sten had been impressed with next to nothing since he had arrived in Ferelden, least of all its lackluster architecture. It wasn't morning, but it wasn't quite midday, either. He was facing east, and if he focused on the scents, he could tell that there was not a lake nearby. That thought concerned him. How far had he been taken? The flesh around his eyes tightened ever so slightly, and Sten rose to his full height, narrowly avoiding getting hit in the head with what seemed like a low hanging lantern.

The spotted cow that shared the barn with him mooed.

As far as livestock went, he supposed she was adequately maintained.

It was the first positive thing he had thought of anything at all in Ferelden.

Red eyes turned towards the entrance of the barn, an open gap in the wall that had nothing but a very large, very old blanket tacked to the top of the archway. Sten stepped towards it, becoming instantly aware of the ill-fitting pants that clung to him in all of the wrong places, and the infuriating lack of his armor. Bare feet paused at the blanket, and he looked back at the place within the hay that still held the shape of his body. For a very brief moment, Sten considered going back and lying down again. He was without comrades, without armor, and without…

The color paled from his face, and Sten turned back to the blanket, thrashing it to get it out of his way as he stepped into the sunlight, rubbing his arms quickly to rid them of bits of hay and dirt that were still stubbornly clinging to them, like a sick man with remnants of a cold that he never could shake.

He could not find Asala.

Fereldens were strange people. Perhaps they had an odd manner of maintaining and storing their weapons, and perhaps these people who had kept him inside of their barn, whoever they might have been, had simply decided to store his sword in another place—preferably a place that kept her dry, but he doubted it.

At the very best, he expected to find Asala propped up in a storage shed, not even given so much as a wrapping of thin leather around the blade to offer it any protection.

As for the worst… He did not want to think of that.

Sten did not raise his hand to block the sun from his eyes, as impulse demanded, but he stood still, staring out across the fields owned by this farmer and his family, his expression characteristically grim, as was often the case with his kind. Heavy brows lowered in an effort to block the blinding rays, and once his eyes had properly adjusted, Sten walked towards the first place that made sense. The house.

"Pa! Papa! The Giant's awake!" a small child chirped, dropping a bucket of potatoes that she had dug up from the ground, shrieking with glee and sprinting back out into the fields on the other side of the barn, disappearing from Sten's sights as quickly as he had noticed her. Even from such a distance, he could hear her shrill voice carrying on.

"Will you put me on his shoulders? But Pa! I could touch the roof of the barn if you did!"

Sten couldn't help himself. He stole a glance to the roof of the barn. She was right, as small as she was, perhaps she might have been able to reach it, with great effort on her part. Following after the small child's voice, Sten rounded the corner after her, coming to a stop and staring down at the farmer that worked the fields, and the child that tugged impatiently at his arm.

"Oh, ah! Hello there, Ser, we've… just about finished up the morning's chores," the farmer called out in a strained voice, speaking slowly as though the Qunari before him may have some difficulty understanding what he was saying.

As Sten of the Berasaad, an envoy of the Qunari people, Sten had considerably more skill with the common tongue than the rest of his people. He preferred not to speak it, thinking rather tersely that their tongue held no music and no spirit, and the words fell as flat as their souls. Nevertheless, as all Qunari, Sten did what had to be done. Unfortunately for the comfort of the farmer, Sten did not think words of greeting were entirely necessary. His presence made it clear that he was here, and the fact that he was not breaking their necks or legs at the moment said enough about his temperament.

Instead of speaking, he grunted and dipped his head.

Watching as the farmer shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, Sten's eyes lifted up and looked off towards the fields from this new vantage point, trying to discover where, exactly, a shed would be located. In his homeland, all homes out in the countryside were identical and arranged in very specific manners, granting each farmer exactly the amount of land that was practical for them to work to optimum capacity. These fields, he saw, were massive for one man and his family unit (another concept that Sten did not fully understand), and while the farmer toiled each day, from sunrise to sunset, it seemed to Sten that he may never finish all of the work that should have been done.

"My wife has been fixing up some food for all of us, you should sit and eat with us, you haven't had anything in you for a week, at least," the farmer wrung his hands in front of him, and Sten's red gaze turned itself back on the human man, the flesh around his eyes tightening. Frown lines deepened, and his stern, haggard face seemed to grow only more severe. A week. For seven days and nights, he had been lying in a barn. While he could have gone longer without food, as conditioned to the life of a soldier that he was, the smell of sweet meats, jam, and eggs reached him on the breeze. None of the food seemed to carry the spices he was accustomed to, and he doubted very seriously that he would truly enjoy the meal provided to him.

Still, no Qunari was wasteful.

Sten lowered his head once more, this time more slowly, indicating his thanks.

As he had discovered during his time in Ferelden, the people of this country were not only wallowing in their own refuse and utterly incompetent, they lacked any sense of true manners. Hospitality seemed as foreign to them as the Qun, and for that, Sten pitied them. When efforts were made on his behalf, and on the behalf of his men, Sten had found that lowering his expectations was almost always mandatory for any sense of satisfaction.

"It's right up this way, Mr Giant!" the child chirped, running up to Sten without fear and jumping up to grab onto his smallest finger, wrapping both of her tiny hands around it. Uncomfortable, Sten adjusted his posture slightly to make the reaching easier for her, and as she tried to lead him away from the barn and up to the small house on the hill, Sten made sure to keep watch of his footing so that he didn't accidentally step on the child's feet and crush them. Completely unaware of his constant struggle in her presence, the child—Sten could only assume that it was a girl child, based on the shrillness of its voice and that despite working at a farm, it wore something as impractical as an ankle-length chemise—continued dragging what she decided was her newest friend right along.

"Now my Ma was real scared of you when Pa and Frederrick brought you back, but since you've been so quiet and sleepy all this time, I think she's just mostly forgotten that you're here," the child explained, updating him on exactly how each member of their unit felt about his presence. For the most part, it seemed that they were all simply doing their best to exercise what Fereldens viewed as hospitality and good will. Sten was not impressed, but found himself grateful, nevertheless.

"I guess if you were very quiet, or if you just said 'hullo, ma'am,' just like that, it might calm her down some—oh, watch your head, you're too tall for the house," the child warned him.

Already having realized this newest predicament, Sten tried to hunch over as best as he knew how to make his way inside of the dwelling. More than once, he wondered why their cook did not simply take the food to them as they worked in the fields, thereby lessening the amount of time that was wasted. Abandoning the thought as quickly as he could, Sten stopped short as the child ran to her mother, flinging her arms around her and telling that the giant in the barn had finally woken up.

"That's wonderful, Sweetie, now how about helping your Ma—By the Maker!" her eyes fell on Sten, and it seemed to him that everything in her body must have stopped for several moments. The bridge of his nose developed a wrinkle, and Sten was unsure whether she intended to try to hit him with her burning skillet, or grab her daughter and flee.

In the end, she simply fainted.

"I guess she still thinks you're scary," the little girl mumbled, staring down at her mother's unconscious form with confusion. "Last time she fainted, it was a rat snake in the sink."

He had only been around this human woman for two minutes, and already this knowledge of her low constitution was giving Sten a massive headache. Drawing in a deeper breath, the Qunari made his way over to the little girl and her mother, stooping down to pick up the woman's limp body in his arms. She was light, not as much as she could have been, for it seemed that she followed the trend of human women—her body collecting soft spots like tokens of valor. Their men seemed to find this attractive, and Sten had seen these soft-bodied women being groped and fondled at length by undisciplined men, but he could not see the appeal.

Kossith women were nearly as tall as the men, sometimes even taller, for they did not have to hunch to accommodate the massive amounts of muscle that accumulated on the backs and shoulders of the men. Regardless of being slighter in size, Kossith women had figures that could have been carved of granite for how hardy and durable they were, each of them firm and made of finely toned muscles. With a breeding program that was very selective, Sten and the other Qunari had to exercise extreme restraint from an early age, and he was accustomed to admiring, but in a way that did not evoke temptations. The behavior of most Kossith Qunari women helped in that—they did not actively tempt.

Human women, as he saw them, were made up mostly of mammary glands, pillowed rears, and lingering softness and skin in the midrift that he supposed must have helped them the next time they bred with their mate, as there was already room for the unborn child to grow.

The woman in his arms was no exception.

Sighing, Sten carried her off to the attached room, lying her across the large bed and removing her shoes from her feet, letting them drop with a thunk on the ground. Returning to the dining area, Sten stood by the wall, letting his eyelids droop as he waited for the other members of this brood to arrive. He did not know what manner of eating customs they followed, and he would not presume.

Letting his mind drift back to his homeland, Sten became as still as the wall that he leaned against, hearing again the steady pull and push of the incoming tide, the people chanting the Qun, breathing in sweet incense and the familiar tang given off by the local carnivorous plants.

"—I didn't agree to you having it in my house! I said you could keep it in the barn,"

"Well he's got to eat sometime, Allysa!" the frustrated farmer snapped at his wife.

Whatever argument they had been having, Sten seemed to have brought himself back to the present at the tail end of it, seeing as the entire family of the farmer—himself, his wife, and five children of varying ages—all seated themselves around the table, regarding Sten with wary expressions, seeming unsure as to how to act or what to say to the bronze skinned giant that stood in their home.

The smallest child, the girl that had dragged him here to begin with, brought him a plate of meats wrapped in crisp, golden breads, explaining gravely that he was too big to sit at the table, and would break the extra chair if he tried.

Not wasting words, Sten dipped his head to the little girl.

She returned to her meal, and the family started off eating in a tense silence that almost seemed as though it were too heavy to break, but in the end, the older boys began talking about ways to improve the fields, which tempted their father to join in, and then the mother remarked on how well their neighbors had been doing, and before long, with as silent as Sten was, it as easy for them to forget that he was even there. After he had finished the unsurprisingly bland meal, Sten held the wooden plate in his massive hand, eying each of the family in turn before speaking up—the first any of them had heard of his voice.

"Your hospitality has been appreciated. Where is my sword?"

The conversation died down, and the mother stared down at her plate, unwilling to speak to the Qunari at all, it seemed, whereas her sons and her husband turned in their chairs to look Sten over before replying.

"My oldest and I found you off by the lake, out cold, and in nothing but your underclothes. There were… bodies, like yours, lying around you, but they were all in the same state. Were you attacked by bandits?" the farmer leaned back against the table, one hand rising to cup his chin. Bandits made sense. They'd make off with everything that a person had on them, including their underclothes. The only reason they didn't take those as well, he assumed, was because Qunari were much larger, and it would have been a waste of effort.

"No. Where is my sword?" Sten repeated himself.

Perhaps they hadn't heard him right. He did not want to discuss the battle, or the darkspawn that had ambushed them. He meant only to ask of his sword. It was all that mattered.

"There… I'm sorry, Ser, there wasn't a sword anywhere near you when we found you," the oldest boy spoke up for his confused father, shrugging his shoulders at Sten. None of them understood the gravity of the situation.

Sten's ears began to ring, and his palms beaded up with sweat.

They had not found a sword. They had found him without his armor, as all of the bodies had been. Armor could be replaced. None of the armor in Ferelden would compare, but he would make do with what a smith could give him. Asala could never be replaced. The corner of his mouth twitched, and the emptiness of his hands served only to make the anxiety and panic inside of him surge even harder against his sternum. Dimly, he was aware of the father of this brood rising to his feet and walking over to him, placing a hand on his shoulder to try and steady him, asking the only thing that made sense to him to ask—was he going to be alright?

"No, no no," Sten breathed out, and then, with a final surging, the anxiety snapped free and poured out of him like a torrential rain.

Grabbing the farmer's face, he turned and shoved the man's head into the wall, once, twice, and then a third time either saw what was left of his skull going through a newly formed hole in the wall, or there simply wasn't anything left. With the red and black splotches clouding his vision, Sten couldn't be sure which it was. He did not hear their screams. The blood roared far too loudly in his ears, and he thundered after and grabbed the older boy that tried to get to the axe by the back door. Taking the axe from him before he could reach it, Sten cleaved his arms off at the elbows, using the hilt of the handle to smash the boy's nose into the rest of his face. Bone shards went up into his brain due to the angle, and the boy died quickly rather than bleeding out, as he would have.

The mother would not stop screaming, and though he couldn't hear it, the sight of her mouth opened wide like a hog begging for slop brought his fury down next upon her. Abandoning the axe entirely in his blind rage, the Qunari shoved both sets of his fingers into her mouth, one forearm draped across her face as the other jerked down on her lower jaw, separating it from her head with nothing but brute strength.

Blood spurted and covered nearly the entire floor and all of the walls by this point.

Slipping in the muck, the four remaining children failed to flee. Accustomed to battling on all terrains, Sten knew how to move to avoid falling, and used this to his advantage, breaking the necks of the older children and slamming their heads into the floor until they were nothing but paste.

The whimper, he heard, and red eyes turned slowly to regard the girl child, no more than four or five years old. Enraged, he reached out to grab her, and the incessant struggling and scratching at his hands and arms only drove him farther into his bloodlust. He listened to her sobbing as he smashed her knees with his fists, then her shins, and back up to her femurs. By the time he had finished, the bones in her legs were nothing but dust inside of her, and the girl had stopped screaming, forced to gurgle once Sten's grip had snapped her ribs and forced them into the delicate flesh of her lungs.

The little girl drowned in her own blood, and Sten dropped her broken body carelessly onto the bloodied floor.

Standing very still, his hands opened and closed, flexing repeatedly, as though trying to grasp the hilt of Asala—something he feared he would never do again. For three hours, he stood like that, staring down at something unseen, grasping for his soul but never finding it.

By nightfall, it was the stench that finally made him come to.

Blinking, Sten took in his surroundings, regarding the corpses with an unreadable expression. Shame burned in his stomach. He had wasted life, and he had wasted time, and perhaps he was not deserving of finding his soul. Staring down into the empty eyes of the smallest child, Sten drew in a slow breath, turning from the gruesome scene and walking out of the house, covered in blood, and south to the nearest town he came across.

Once inside of Lothering, he continued walking, ignoring the gawkers, until he came upon a cage large enough for himself. Stepping inside of it, he shut the gate. A guard stepped warily closer to him, staring up at him in confusion.

"You will find their bodies inside of their house. It is a mile to the northwest."


	4. Chapter 3, Weasels and Cockroaches

Act 1, Chapter 3

Mauve's steps were surprisingly quiet for someone of her size. She made the trek across the ancient bridge slowly, violet eyes drifting out to look over the tree tops of the wilds that hung so close to the ruins. It was as if the old blocks of stone and the encroaching trees played the old child's game of Not Touching, taunting fingers drifting ever closer, a constant reminder that at any moment, nature may swallow the tower as well as the out-post already lost to it. The wind was stagnant. Old scents were recycled on every breeze, and it seemed that the birds and their usual noise had been choked out.

She assumed it was the presence of so many soldiers, but a look at the sky made her think otherwise.

Large groups of soldiers usually brought the carrion birds out of hiding, each of them seeking their next meal. Raven had taught her how to tell the difference between a flock of the great, bulky birds that were circling lazily on the breeze and waiting for something to die, and a group that had already found something dead.

Even with so many soldiers gathered together—all of the king's army, and every pinch of men that had been even half-trained from every bann, teryn, and other form of lordship in the land—the skies were barren. Deaths were assured, every battle had them, but the carrion birds would have none of it.

The qunari's nose wrinkled ever so slightly, and a chill crawled up her spine.

Turning back towards her destination, Mauve stepped forward again. She did her best not to look around any longer, as what she saw disturbed her on a deeper level than she was willing to admit. The shattered head of the stature at the midway point glared up at her accusingly, and Mauve wrinkled her lips into a scowl.

"Ho there, you must be Duncan's new recruit," a man in drab, functional armor characteristic of a grunt soldier with only enough pay to keep his job called out to her, drawing her thoughts from dark places and forcing her back to the present, which held remarkably less light and life to it than either of them would have liked.

"Nothing escapes you, I take it," the qunari retorted, eyes glinting with an almost mocking spark. She watched as the soldier shifted uncomfortably. Stepping closer, Mauve towered over him, and she tipped her head to the side, white locks of hair drifting forward around the base of her horns. "Well?" She prompted him, thin brows arching.

"I—" the man stuttered, his brows wrinkling in confusion behind the arch in his helm. "I was just going to bid you welcome, and answer any… questions…"

Mauve studied his face at length, her nostrils flaring with disapproval at what she could infer. Years of living with unscrupulous sorts had given her a remarkable ability to read most people, and as it happened, this man was less than any sort of exception to the rule. One recruit was not welcomed by every soldier, the mere fact that he had hailed her gave her enough pause to warrant suspicion.

"You don't seem like other qunari," he admitted at length, eyes falling away from the imposing face that stared back at him, unblinking.

Looking off in the direction Duncan had walked, Mauve sighed and pushed past the soldier, pausing after only a few steps to turn her head back and purse her lips together.

"Where can I get a suit of armor and weaponry?" Mauve tipped her chin upwards, and the moment the man gestured with his hand the direction she was to take, she turned from him and started off, not waiting for him to rattle off detailed instructions. The walk into the ruins was short. For the most part, it seemed fortifications had been dedicated to the outside walls and entryways, and less so to the structures located inside of the vast courtyards. Either they didn't have the supplies and man power to dedicate to further renovations, or there just wasn't the time.

Or, as the King's attitude suggested, perhaps they assumed that they would never need another line of defenses.

The thought made her feel bare and uncomfortable.

A bright light between a makeshift tent and a stone statue of Andraste to her right drew her attention, and Mauve creased her brow, stepping over and peering through the space provided. Men and women stood together, each of them cloaked in robes, their expressions drawn and intently focused on their task, whatever it might have been. The feeling of magic in the air made the hairs on her arms stand up, and it seemed to Mauve that every sound and smell was suffocated by the discharge from the mages' efforts.

Unable to see much else from her vantage point, Mauve took another step in their direction, finding it odd that a country so fearful of mages would simply unleash these individuals and let them play with the delicate fabric between the real world and the fade.

"Please step back, the Tranquil are hard at work preparing for the battle ahead," a helmed figure droned out. Evidently, this wasn't the first time he had said this. The right side of Mauve's nose twitched, and she remained where she was, fingers flexing uselessly and picking at the sides of the commoner's pants that she wore.

"What are they doing?" she asked, nodding her head in the direction of the straining magi. Even from this distance, she could see the beads of sweat coming together on their brows, and the slickness on their palms when the manufactured beams of light hit them just right. Distrustful of magic, primarily because of her lack of understanding, Mauve had always kept her distance from whatever Apostates Raven had taken in and given shelter in exchange for work. She had seen men set on fire with nothing more than a flick of a woman's wrist, and the smell of his flesh melting away from his bones as nothing more than his skeleton was left in a heap on the ground had taken days to rid itself from her nostrils.

Magic was dangerous and unpredictable. A sword—that was something that she could combat, and it was something that could be easily understood. The blade was sharp, and it could cut. A mage's hands, it seemed, could do any number of things on nothing more than a whim.

"They're enchanting equipment for the King's men. As you can see, it takes a lot of their effort. Please step back," the Templar had dealt with idle curiosity for far too long that day, and the day prior. Any and all patience he had for onlookers had already been sapped.

Grunting in response, Mauve stepped back, muttering all the while about magic exploding and blasting a new cavernous hole in what was left of the ruins. When that happened, she decided, she wanted to be as far from them as possible. Shaking her head, the horned woman continued trumping down her original path. A priestess stood atop a raised platform, preaching to desperate soldiers about The Maker and the forgiveness and love that he offered them, another woman swung incense as she walked amongst them, though the breeze blew the tendrils away as quickly as they appeared.

A woman stood apart from the rest, dressed in bright red robes, graying hair pulled into a tight, neat bun. Her eyes settled on Mauve at length, narrowing with interest, but ultimately abandoning whatever urge that danced on the tip of her tongue. Mauve leveled the strange woman with her characteristic stare, violet eyes full of challenging sparks that were, for the moment, not met.

Above the other clamor of the massive campsite, Mauve was able to hear and smell the modest forges set up in a corner nook. A balding man with a pot belly and arms that seemed too large for his body stood amidst the equipment, his shirt and trousers both damp with sweat. Freshly mended pieces were sitting atop an armor rack, the helmet askew and threatening to dip even farther forward, as though a wooden soldier were bowing his head in defeat. Making her way over, Mauve's footsteps inevitable crunched through the gravel, announcing her presence before she opened her mouth to speak. Looking up at her, the blacksmith scowled and wrinkled his upper lip.

"Employing knife-ears isn't enough—now we've got fucking Ox Men," he muttered sourly, turning from her, though from the expression on her face, it was more than obvious that she had come here for a purpose, and that purpose involved him and his trade.

"Blacksmith," Mauve barked out, her tone as commanding as her presence. It forced not only his attention, but also the attention of a dark-haired, tanned man leaning against a nearby post, doing his best to sweet talk one of the few female soldiers among them—without having much luck. Mauve stepped forward, her hands coming to rest on her hips as her eyes fixed the balding man with an intense stare, blinking far less than a human might have needed to.

"Yeah, yeah, what do you want, Cow?" he grumbled, turning his head to stare up at her. As a man with little love for women with any authority to begin with, he found Mauve particularly infuriating, even after only being in her presence for mere seconds. She was taller than he was, fitter than he was, her voice was more commanding, and she radiated the experience of someone used to maintaining leadership—something that the smith himself had never been able to attain, despite years of working and slaving away. It was a bribe that had landed him the position as being the primary smith in this section of the battle camps, and even with as much business he had been able to manage, he was still paying off the bribe. The only women he liked were frightened elven women. They were too thin-boned and weak to put up much of a fight, and with necks so thin, it was easy to grab hold and hang onto them.

Mauve was a woman from his nightmares, and he did not like the way that she looked at him, as though he were a cockroach skittering around her boot.

While offensive, his insult was substantially less creative than most. Nevertheless, to see such a toad of a man acting so bold rubbed Mauve the wrong way, and she took a step forward, fully intending to throttle him and shove his head inside of his own forge. Before she had the chance, the tanned man that had been trying to charm the leggings off of a woman nearby stepped over, moving in between them with a lopsided smile.

"Woah, easy now! Lets not get hasty. Forgive the Forge Master, Ma'am, I'm sure he didn't mean nothin' by it, just idly remarkin on the horns an' all," Daveth spoke in a rushed tone. He was a man more than used to being silenced before he had spoken his piece, and so, rather than having to come to blows with anyone when they had tired of listening to him, he had simply resolved to speak faster than before. It was a remarkable success.

"We're all a gruff lot out here, it's us being so close to the wilds, I reckon, but anyway—never minding that fact, Ser, I think the lady here was just lookin to pick up that suit of armor that Duncan sent word for you to get to making," Daveth raised his brows, gesturing at the suit of reddish brown scale mail that was off in the farthest corner of the nook, stacked sloppily on top of an old chest.

Bristling with indignation, but unable to properly bring the tension to a breaking point with Daveth's easy smiles and amicable conversation, both the smith and the qunari settled down. Still, they regarded each other with an uneasy dislike, as though each of them had something to say to the other, but neither of them was willing to be the lesser of the two and dredge up the matter again.

Satisfied with his handiwork, Daveth turned back to Mauve as the forge master grunted and groaned, dragging baskets and crates of supplies out of the way in an effort to get to the armor.

"Well, you're not what I thought you'd be," Daveth snickered, tilting his head back to look up at the horned woman, lopsided grin still contorting his features, "Me and Ser Knight were just taking bets on what you'd be—bet your ass a qunari was the last thing on the list, and a woman, too!" It seemed he was far more excited about the latter, and despite his eyes being as quick as his tongue, Mauve was able to catch them flicking over her figure and appraising its worth by human standards. To most, it fell short. She held too firm a musculature, and while her hips were wide and her chest full, she was too intimidating. Daveth, unlike most, seemed willing to take the risk.

"You're an interesting little man, aren't you?" Mauve murmured, silver brows furrowing as she leaned a little closer, almost as though she were inspecting him. As far as the humans she had dealt with so far in this camp, his attitude was the most familiar to her. The group of bandits that she had grown up with had taken in a lot of unscrupulous sorts over the years, most of which had their strange ticks and habits. If she were to take a stab at it, Mauve would have guessed that Daveth didn't exactly have a history following the strictly mandated laws set forth by the kingdom.

"Interesting? Yes, definitely, I've been told that quite a bit, believe it or not. As for little… S'more about the usage, no?" Daveth grinned lopsidedly, and to his surprise, Mauve seemed to smile back, if only for an instant.

"How did you know who I was?" Mauve said, glancing up as the smith begrudgingly deposited the armor several feet away from her in a less-than-gracious heap of metal and leather. Daveth followed her gaze, and then stepped forward, placing down the coins that Duncan had given him prior to leaving several nights ago.

"Well, the old man that brought ya here gave me the payments for your armor before he left, an' he said that if he wasn't back in a week, I could spend it however I liked." Daveth rolled his eyes, stooping over to pick up the smaller pieces of armor, such of vambraces, holding them out to Mauve to encourage her to come a little closer for them.

"Just my luck that the asshole's a punctual buggar," he snorted.

Mauve begrudgingly stepped closer to retrieve the armor pieces, but rather than taking what Daveth offered her, she immediately gravitated towards the larger pieces. Taking the leather tunic, she squeezed herself inside of it, glancing down to see if it fell to the length that it was supposed to. At most, it reached just past her buttocks. Wrinkling her nose in distaste, Mauve snatched up the long-sleeve, tabard-like mesh of chainmail, somehow managing to wriggle her way into it, letting both flaps fall where they pleased. Thankfully, it seemed this piece fit her height somewhat better, and the end of the protective flaps reached almost to the middle of her thighs. Next came the breastplate, which required Daveth's help to secure. Between two sets of hands, the many straps and buckles were situated quickly. Leather leggings were even easier to strap into place, over her own light cloth britches.

"S'only one shoulder-guard. Then again, you're lucky you get the armor at all. Most of its come from a bundle of over-sized dead men," Daveth informed her, picking up the leather spaulder and standing on his toes to try and see where to secure it. "Personally, I'm glad it's just leather britches they found for ya—it'd be a damn shame for that backside t'get stuffed into anything else."

"Just don't get too distracted back there," Mauve tried to hide the twitch of a smile, but it was no use. Instead, her closest arm reached out and pushed Daveth back a few feet with a lightning quickness. Knowing he wasn't actually threatened or reprimanded, the dark-haired man just grinned at her.

"Looks like y'got a bundle of mabari pups all wrestlin' under a tablecloth right now,"

"Daveth," Mauve forced a scowl.

After a moment, they both snorted, brown and violet eyes sparkling with mutual laughter.

"Well, seeing as you're all fitted and suited up with the scraps we've got, I'd best be getting back to Duncan. I oughta show 'em that I didn't actually spend all his damn coin on ale and spirits—not that the spirits they've got here are much good, anyway. Last I saw of the knight, he's been hemming and hawing to The Maker, up with some priest on the rise over there," he paused to point up the flight of stairs and the slope that followed, both of which looked to be in a state of minor disrepair. "If I were you, I'd go track him down, along with that blondie Templar that they've got. They plan on sending us into the Wilds, did he tell you?" Daveth tilted his head, rather like a cat.

Judging from the slight wrinkling of Mauve's brow, the answer was, quite clearly, a resounding 'no.'

"Oh, come on, Mauvie, it'll be fun—just think, y'get to spend the night with cannibals, witches, darkspawn; and me!" Daveth added himself as an afterthought, turning on his heel and walking briskly off towards a circular section of pillars on the other side of the vast courtyard, avoiding the mabari pens as much as he could.

"Welcome to Ostagar, Mauve!" he called over his shoulder.

Mauve shifted from her weight from one booted foot to the other, her upper lip tensing with unease. Drawing in a deeper breath, she slowly moved towards the stairs, managing to snatch a spiked mace and an old short axe from the weapons rack while the smith had his back turned. Smiling to herself, she ascended the stairs, purple eyes already sharpening to pin-point exactly who this 'knight' was that Daveth had mentioned.

The oversized, slack-jawed, balding cow standing off to the side wasn't precisely what she had in mind. If this was what the Wardens had to offer for the terrors that she had heard about, Mauve had less than optimistic thoughts towards the upcoming battle. Sensing her gaze upon him, Ser Jory turned his head and looked her over with a disapproving confusion, seeming to clear his throat.

"I wasn't aware women were allowed within the Grey Wardens, or… Qunari." He muttered the last part, his eyes flicking back to the priestess as she lectured on earing The Maker's forgiveness.

Mauve's lips twitched, and she looked back in the direction Daveth had gone, trying to steel herself up to talking to this droll, dumpy man.

Welcome to Ostagar, indeed.


	5. Chapter 4, Alistair's Cheese

**A/N - This story is going to be gaining a few different points of view now that we're getting past that beginners hump. For those of you still waiting on Sten, I'll see if I can't get out a 'meanwhile' short chapter relatively soon so that we can see how things are going over on his end... it's boring. With a view of a fence. Anyway, enjoy.**

* * *

"—And that's why I've always wanted to join the Wardens. They're so noble, and do so much for so little. Being a knight of Highever has been wonderful, you see, but with this evil here in the world now, I feel that I should do more than just offer my services to the local lord," Ser Jory had been speaking for the past half hour, seeming to find absolutely any reason to run his oh so noble jowls. This man was no better than a hog, proud beyond measure of the mountain of slop he rutted around in day after day after day.

Mauve's eye twitched, and she looked up towards the sky, watching the sun as it began to dip towards the west. If this sack of shit kept running his mouth, they would all run out of time before the next battle. And where was Alistair? One of Mauve's hands rose to rub at the base of her horn, and the kossith woman heaved a weighted sigh.

"—And with a child on the way, it just seemed like the right thing to do. I won't see my child until they're at the walking age, but I suppose that's alright. My wife has been left enough to take care of the both of them until I return, at least, and—were you listening? You're a woman, I'm trying to seek your opinion on this, it's a very delicate matter and—" Jory's hand reached out to grip her arm to try and anchor her attention, and Mauve quickly shook him off, her head practically thrashing back and forth.

"No, can't be of help, terribly sorry, qunari women eat their children," Mauve rushed out, stepping backwards. "It's been wonderful talking to you, but I'm getting those urges again," she rubbed her face, violet eyes widening as she turned her head away from him and off in the direction that she had come.

"Urges?" Jory tilted his head at her, confusion making his ham-hawed face look all the more… infuriatingly stupid.

"Yes, cannibalistic ones." Mauve curled her upper lip back, staring at the knight at length until he shifted away from her uncomfortably, turning his eyes back to the priestess, who just seemed to be finishing her proclamations of holy wrath and the path to forgiveness.

"Well, ah, I suppose that I'll speak with you later, then," he murmured meekly, bringing his hand up to rub slowly at the side of the neck, in part because it itched, but primarily because he was sure that Mauve's teeth may sink into it if he didn't protect it.

Finally having managed to detach herself from the knight, Mauve stalked off farther away from the well, coming to stand by a tree and a cage hanging from a thick wooden post. The human inside of it was slumped, she assumed he was dead. Settling in, Mauve leaned back against the trunk of the tree and let her eyes close for a few moments, trying to get the lilting voice of the knight out of her head, along with all of his stories of gryphons and childhood dreams that had finally come true—why had the wardens even taken him in? If he didn't die in the upcoming battle, Mauve was certain that she would end up killing him herself.

"Andraste's tits, I thought you were going to cut either his throat or your own, for sure," a voice came from somewhere above her head, and Mauve swung her eyes to look up at the cage and the slumped, almost naked figure inside of it—Except that he wasn't slumped, anymore, he had maneuvered himself forward, and now had his face near the iron bars, and his arms wound through them.

"I would have, anyway. Then again, I'm a dead man come tomorrow, so it's not like I've got much to lose. Suppose you've got yourself a bright future, ah?" He snickered, smirking as he looked Mauve over with a lazy dullness to his eyes. "Don't suppose you've got any food on you? I'm starving in here." He heaved a sigh, glancing over in the direction of the guard posted twenty paces away from his cage, with his back resolutely turned

Mauve pressed her lips together, trying to figure out what to think of the prisoner. He seemed oddly accepting of his fate, but then, hadn't she been the same way? Death came for all men, it was just a matter of when, where, and how. Tipping her chin up, Mauve stepped closer, her arms crossing under her chest as she eyed the iron cage he was trapped inside of.

"And if I've got food? Why should I give it to you?" she challenged him, eying him up and down critically. He wasn't much in the way of men. His hair was matted and greasy, he was covered in bruises and dirt alike, and there was only muscle enough on him to carry him far and wide whenever he ran from whatever danger presented itself.

"Because I've got something that you might want," he murmured.

"Oh really?" Mauve snorted, but his tone gave her pause. Despite his predicament, he seemed sure of himself and what he had said. The kossith woman arched her neck, her head tilting in a feline manner as she peered more closely at him. Poking out of the hem of his underclothes, there was the dull butt of something iron—a key, from the looks of it, one that was absolutely filthy, and that had clearly seen better days. When she looked back up at his face, the caged man waggled his eyebrows at her, then sat back in his cage and stuck his arms behind his head, puckering his lips at her.

"It goes to a chest them mage folk keep by their tents; I can't use it from here, but shit's sake, I'd love some food. I'd even settle for those damned moldy biscuits they've been feeding us for months," the thief drawled, letting his eyelids droop lower. Mauve shifted her shoulders, running through her options inside of her head. Her arms were long enough; she could fit them through the bars and simply take the key from him. If he fought, she could kill him. She'd killed many men, what was one more to add to the tally? But then, the men she killed hadn't been caged. They hadn't been naked, either… not usually, anyway. The men that Mauve killed were all seasoned men that knew their way around a weapon and had a fighting chance.

It kept her blood pumping, that way. Slaughter was boring.

Drawing in a deep breath, Mauve's eyes shifted off to where the mages kept their tents. Even from this distance, she could see the tranquil mages weaving their enchantments. The idea of going any closer to those blasted tents than she already had unsettled her. She didn't trust magic, not for an instant. Besides—the blasted chest that the key went to was probably booby-trapped with some awful curse. Last she had heard, the only mages that kept gold were apostates, the rest of them didn't bother with worldly wealth.

Or, according to the blonde man that had found his way into Raven's group for one short fortnight, they weren't allowed to procure wealth.

Whatever was in the chest, she didn't want it.

Still… it wasn't fair to let the man go hungry. If they had him locked up, she could only imagine that they planned on hanging him. The least she could do for him was ensure that he had enough in his body to shit on their boots as the rope snapped his neck.

"I'll find you something," she muttered, nodding to him and stalking off, shooting a glare at the guard when he looked in her direction. Slumping onward, Mauve's eyes flicked towards a red robed man with dark skin that kept trying to out-pace a blonde, tanned young man in a light suit of armor. From the way he held his shoulders, it was clear that he wasn't pleased. The young man didn't look particularly happy, either—more like a kicked puppy trotting after a disapproving master. Snorting, Mauve was content to continue harrumphing about the ruins in a futile search for this ex-templar 'alistair,' without another thought towards the comical pair, but then the next bit of shouting caught her attention.

"If you do not leave me be, Templar, I'll see to it that you can't shut your eyes for so much as a wink of sleep without nightmares from the abyss itself!" the mage threatened, seeming to bristle as the blonde man kept after him, even still.

"Well, you're a bit late on that one, I'm afraid, but I do appreciate the sentiment! Perhaps if I just dreamed of your face, instead? It'd be a refreshing change of pace from the usual, but just as terrible!" the blonde man finally made his way in front of the mage, forcing him to come up short, stopping in his tracks lest he run straight into the younger man.

Mauve snorted with laughter, looking around the ruins before she stepped closer to the bickering pair, hands resting on her hips as she waited for them to finish whatever it was they were doing—or at least for fighting to break out.

"What is it you want from me, boy?"

"I could have told you that at the start of the last half-mile, but I'm sort of glad for the walk… very scenic," the blonde man heaved a sigh, blinking several times, as though stealing himself up for the conversation, "I bring a message from the Revered Mother, she, ah… desires your presence, ser mage." He added the title as an afterthought, pressing his lips together and ducking his chin down towards his chest.

"What her Reverence 'desires' is of no concern to me! I serve the king, and no other, we mages are not at her beck and call, now out of my way," the mage snapped, shoving past Alistair and stomping off towards the section of the campsite that he and those like him had been using.

The Templar sighed, shoulders drooping as he shook his head, eyes still trained on the ground for some time after the mage left. He muttered to himself, going over the conversation again, using a deep, comical voice for the mage he named 'the grumpy one.'

"You, there, what is your name?" Mauve called out, striding forward.

The blonde man jumped, holding up a hand towards her and eying her up and down. His cheeks were somewhat flushed, likely embarrassed at being caught in his more childish way of coping with stress, but unwilling to wave someone off or be needlessly confrontational right off of the bat.

"It's Alistair. You're not another mage, are you?" he muttered the question reluctantly, shifting uncomfortably and glancing over his shoulder, "Not that there's anything wrong with it if you are, I just like to know my chances of being turned into a toad at the start of conversations," he added, clearing his throat and stepping forward with his hand outstretched, "I know you, you're the warden that Duncan sent word of."

"Word travels faster than I do," Mauve snorted, gripping his wrist firmly and giving it a single shake, forcing a smile to try and reassure him. It didn't appear to work, but the young man was nothing if not versatile, and he settled himself down into the role of business.

"It always does. Anyway, as a junior member of the order, I'll be accompanying you as you prepare for the joining. Did you have any questions for me?" he arched his brows, withdrawing his arm from Mauve's grip and settling his hands on his hips, mirroring the pose that she had taken before their introduction.

"What we're doing, where we're going, and why you're coming, for starters," Mauve snorted, and then jerked her thumb back in the direction that they had come. Standing still felt wrong amidst the ruins, where she could smell the fear and adrenaline of the soldiers piling up in a thick cloud. Walking and talking was simple enough, and it saved them the daylight needed for what was to come—whatever it was.

"Ha, I know, I felt the same way during my joining… You'll understand more once we're out there. As for where we're going—the ritual needs fresh darkspawn blood, so you, me, and the other recruits are going to head off into the wilds to go and get some. I'm not here to make things easy, think of me as more of a… well, a look-out," Alistair shrugged, following after the qunari, all the while wondering how such a creature wound up in Ferelden to begin with. The only horned devils he had ever seen or heard about had been in the ports, and they weren't exactly the type of people that anyone relished being around for very long, much less meeting on the roads…

Then again, didn't that description fit what Duncan had told him of Mauve perfectly? The letter had made her seem like nothing short of a monster. A rabid dog that had attacked the first hand it saw. The woman walking alongside him seemed pleasant and mild-mannered enough, even if there was a fearsome glint in her eyes, and a familiar, loving way to the way she touched the hilts of her weapons.

"I've just got one more question," Mauve glanced over her shoulder at him, thin brows lowering with either hesitation or determination, "Have you got any food?"

The question took Alistair by surprise coming from the severe looking woman, and he tipped his head at her, grinning as he fished a hunk of spiced cheese out of a small bag tied to his belt. He held it out for her to see.

"Nobody much likes the Tevinters, but if I had to say something good about them, it'd be that they make one hell of a cheese," he smiled, staring down at the hunk of dairy lovingly, starting to withdraw his hand and the cheese, only to be startled as Mauve snatched it right out of his palm, turning away from him and continuing off down the path.

"Hey! I was going to eat that, you know!" He protested, "Look, I've already bitten a corner off. It's got my teeth marks in it, you can't possibly want it now," he grumbled, hurrying after the horned woman.

"It's not for me, and I doubt he cares." Mauve snorted, sparing him a look and an amused chuckled. Leading him down towards the table that the commanders and royals used for their meetings, Mauve switched directions abruptly, leading Alistair up a narrow path that went through a crack in the wall. Up above, the sight of the medical station, the well the priestesses lectured at, and a man slumped in a cage greeted them. Alistair paused to take in their new surroundings, but Mauve had other ideas. Not waiting for him, she strode straight up to the cage hanging from the post, reaching her arm through to poke the man in the side.

"Andraste's tits, you'll give a man a heart attack like that," the prisoner protested, and it seemed that he began to eye Mauve more closely, unsure of himself and the situation. He hadn't really expected her to return, and when he didn't expect things—they usually turned out terribly.

"It's not much, but it'll let you shit on their boots, at least," Mauve said, forcing the block of cheese through the holes in the bars, smiling faintly as the deserter quickly snatched it up, cramming it into his mouth at a ravenous pace, before she could change her mind and accuse him of thievery as well. Mauve shrugged one shoulder at him, then started stepping away from the cage, waving Alistair over from where he had stopped.

"Thank you, Moo! I'll hang with enough weight on me to snap my bloody neck," the thief settled, one hand resting over his stomach.

Alistair looked between the two of them as he caught up with Mauve, then stared at her with furrowed brows.

"So, let me get this straight…" he murmured, "You'll cut people on the roads down in cold blood, but then you go feeding prisoners very, very nice cheese?" he brought a hand up to scratch the back of his head as she snorted at him, refusing to look in his direction as they made their way down the slope and towards the fire that Duncan, Daveth, Jory, and a very thin robed figure had all gathered around.

"Say anything of it to anyone, and I'll have to kill you," Mauve smiled, reaching out with her elbow to nudge the blonde man. When they reached the fire, she looked at the others seated and standing around it. As she hadn't been sent to fetch the robed figure that stood off to the side at the other end of the ring of pillars, Mauve could only assume that this person, whoever and whatever they were, was not going to be a part of the ritual.

"About bloody time you came along," Daveth snickered.

Mauve reached out and thumped the back of his head.

"Now that we are all here," Duncan began speaking, hoping to cut off any further shenanigans, "It is time that we prepare for the joining. For this ritual, we will need darkspawn blood. Each of you has a vial—I expect it to be filled when you return."

"You're telling me that you've all been here for weeks, and you couldn't have gathered some before now?" Mauve arched a brow, crossing her arms underneath her chest. It seemed more like a fools errand, trumping through the wilds and killing a few straggling monsters, all to get blood—and for what? Were they going to paint their faces with it and sing a chant?

"The blood would coagulate, and become far more bitter and toxic than it already is…" the robed figure spoke. From the voice, Mauve could tell that it was a woman beneath all of the fabric, but with the way her hood was drawn, it was impossible to tell anything else. Being corrected didn't set well with her, and the kossith woman tipped her chin upwards.

"And who's this? I don't remember fetching that one for you, Duncan." Mauve snipped.

Duncan brought a hand up to rub at his temples, heaving a sigh that sounded eerily close to a groan of frustration. He hated fresh recruits. It was a pity that the order needed them so terribly.

"This is Genevieve, you did not fetch her because she makes it a point to be easily found. At any rate—You, Alistair, Jory, and Daveth will go into the wilds and get the blood. There is also a matter of treaties… Alistair, there is a tower that was a warden outpost long ago. The treaties are inside of a chest with protective wards. It is of utmost importance that you bring them back, do you understand?" Duncan stared intently across the fire at Alistair, not twitching so much as a hair of his beard until the younger man agreed.

"I understand, Duncan," Alistair bowed his head, and then looked off towards the southern exit of the ruins, and the wilds that lay beyond.

"Wonderful, two errands for the price of one," Mauve muttered, head shaking as she scowled at Duncan. Sighing, she slumped off in the direction of the wilds, pausing a few steps away from the pillars to wait for the three men meant to accompany her.

"Oh, come on, Mauvie, it'll be fun! You, me, and the boys all having ourselves a hike in the woods, it's close to romantic!" Daveth cheered, hoisting himself up from his seat by using Jory as a pushing stump, trotting after Mauve with a mock-salute to Duncan and the woman behind him. Jory struggled to his feet, hefting up his sword. Alistair followed after the rest of them, sighing.

"If someone starts snogging anyone, I'll kill both of you." Mauve warned them. As they approached, the guard opened the gate and muttered a warning to them about the potential dangers ahead. Together, the group of four left the ruins and entered the wilds.

Only Jory looked back.


	6. Chapter 5, Visions & Blood

**A/N - I've finally settled into a comfortable groove with the writing style with this story, so hopefully the lot of you are alright with the change of pace. I also fell in love with Genevieve. Terribly sorry. Um. Jory sucks. Enjoy.**

* * *

Genevieve leaned against her staff, thin hands wrapped around the smooth wood. Drawing in a deep breath, she stared after the group of four as they marched off into the wilderness, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. Alistair had proven himself well enough, even if he still seemed to be missing a spine inside of his armor… These new recruits, though, she had her doubts.

"Are you sure about them, Duncan?" She murmured, just loud enough to be heard over the crackling of the fire, and the barking dogs. The sun was just beginning to dip towards the west. If all went well, by the time they returned, there would still be time enough for The Joining to take place. If not… She could only hope that what she had seen wouldn't come to pass. Straightening herself up, the mage woman hobbled forward, leaning heavily against her staff as she came to stand next to Duncan.

"I'm not sure of anything any longer, My Dear…" Duncan whispered, sighing and dipping his head down towards his chest. Genevieve's prophecies and the whispers that they all heard in their dreams weighed heavily on his mind, and the smoke from the fires rising up over the treetops didn't bode well at all. A gentle hand reached out and set itself on his arm, and Duncan slowly turned his head to look back at Genevieve, trying to see below the shade that her hood granted. Only the curve of her lips and the knotted ridge of the vicious scar that went across her face were visible.

"Whatever happens now, it's out of your hands now. You did what you could," Genevieve reassured him, tilting her head to rest it against his shoulder for a moment. "I'll go and make preparations, eat something; you haven't touched a bite all day."

Genevieve turned and slunk away to a more secluded location, and Duncan watched after her until she disappeared into the shadows of the ruins. A chill feeling crept inside of his bones, and the older man turned back towards the fire, staring down at the smoldering logs.

* * *

"Do you even know where we're going?" Daveth grumbled, feeling quite sour after a third blister had sprouted up on the only portion of his foot that didn't have a callus yet. His face was etched into a scowl, and his hands rested on his daggers in an irritable manner. He had thought that this was going to be a quick trip in and out—not a lengthy stay in wilds full of witches, cannibals, darkspawn, and rabid animals.

"Me?" Mauve rounded on him, her brows drawn together, and a nearly murderous glimmer in her eyes. As a kossith, she fared better with lengthy exertions than her human companions did. Her stamina was naturally much higher, and her only complaint remained the fact that the entire swampy forest stank of foul magic and rotting flesh. Still, with her temperamental nature, that fact alone was more than enough to fray the fine edges of her patience.

"That's what _he's _for; don't look at me, look at the blasted Templar!" Mauve snapped.

Alistair threw his hands up in the air, turning to the side to avoid looking at any of them. Jory was quiet, at least, when he wasn't trying to talk to Alistair about his education on The Maker. Daveth and Mauve were thieves, common bandits, and as much as he hated to stereotype—here they were, already at each other's throats after two hours of walking.

"I _told _you before we left; I'm not here to make it easy! I'm just an alarm!" Alistair protested, hitching his shoulders up towards his ears as Daveth and Mauve stared back at him with exasperated expressions. What did they expect from him? They had two tasks—get darkspawn blood, and fetch the treaties. Besides, it wasn't as though Duncan had trained him to assist with initiations; he had no idea what he was doing!

Daveth pressed his lips together, his forehead wrinkled with irritation as both of his hands went up and linked behind his head, which began to nod with mock solemnity.

"An alarm. That's great, Ser Alistair, that's wonderful. So if you're an alarm," his voice began to rise in volume and pitch, and a strained grin tugged at the corners of his mouth, "How about you start alarming us and telling us where the blighted darkspawn are at so I can fill up this shitty vial!" Daveth's nose twitched, and he turned away from the group, stalking off farther into the forest, kicking fallen branches out of his way in an effort to vent his frustrations.

Mauve grew eerily quiet, and though her expression faded into something that looked entirely neutral, there was still a glimmer of rage lighting up her eyes. At the very least, she kept them off of her companions and out into the forests, trying to catch sight of an enemy before it saw them.

"Do you think that it's all part of His plan for us?" Jory murmured, trying once more to start up conversation on a familiar topic to keep himself from quivering inside of his armor. None of his training had prepared him for this situation.

"I don't know, Jory, I really don't, but I do think that maybe we had all just best be quiet for a while," Alistair retorted, bringing a hand up to rub his forehead as Daveth came skirting back through the bushes, pointing in the direction he had come from, his weapons drawn.

"Wolves. One of the buggars tried getting' me, but Mauvie and I took care of 'em. The rest are eatin' somethin' down by the pond," Daveth explained. Peering over him, Alistair could see Mauve staring off down the slope at something, likely the wolves Daveth had mentioned. Sighing, he strapped his shield to his arm and drew his longsword, nodding to Daveth.

"Come on, lets get this over with," Alistair sighed, stepping past Mauve and Daveth.

* * *

Genevieve had ventured far from the ring of pillars, and well away from prying eyes. The warden ritual was secret, and she intended to keep it that way. Sitting on top of an old stone slab that made a handy makeshift table, the cloaked figure stared down into the large vial of liquid lyrium that she had prepared. Even through the glass, she could feel the heat coming off of it, and it made the delicate hairs on her arms stand up. The very blood in her veins seemed to bubble with delight.

"You needn't sneak up on me, I felt you twenty paces ago," she called out, not bothering to look over her shoulder.

Her peeping tom sighed, stepping out from behind a pillar and walking towards her. His golden hair seemed closer to copper in the dying light, and his bright blue eyes were only magnified by the sky blue color of his tunic.

"Is that a mage thing or a warden thing?" The King asked her, striding over and hiking a leg up onto the table, favoring that hip to lean on.

"A little of both, I suppose," Genevieve smiled beneath the shadow of her hood, tilting her head just enough for him to see the glimmer coming from her eyes. The King was a kind man, she had known him for several years, if from a distance. Putting the glass back down onto the stone table, she folded her hands away amidst her robes, resting them in her lap. The two sat in amicable silence for a few moments, and Genevieve watched the young king as he looked over at the liquid lyrium, likely wondering why she had it in her possession, but not presuming to question it and overstep any unseen bounds.

"Duncan says that you're a seer? I never put much stock into it, how does it work?" Cailin tipped his head up, his lips pressing together nervously. How many kings had done this before him, he wondered, seeking counsel and comfort from something that they didn't truly believe in?

The cloaked woman smiled at him, just enough for him to see the curve of her lips from the shadows under her hood, and she scooted herself forward, bringing her hands up and touching the lines that marred Cailin's brow. The touch made one corner of her lip twitch as images flashed through her mind—a fuzzy memory of a brown haired woman, wasting away inside of herself, her body a prison of flesh instead of the host of a warrior queen that it had been before. Afterwards, a grand wedding ceremony, and a bride whose spirit seemed cloaked with shadows.

Her fingertips traveled over his face, and Genevieve sighed as gently as she could manage. It was difficult to see, and shrouded in thick, gloomy clouds, but she thought that she could see something—Cailin himself in a dull suit of chainmail, and another man that she didn't know dressed much the same, seated around a low banked fire, their faces grim. Alive, but not well.

"Feel peace, My King, this is not the end," Genevieve whispered, starting to withdraw her hands from him. The blonde man quickly snatched them in his own and brought them to his lips, kissing her fingertips and her palms out of sheer gratitude.

"Can you show me Anora? I'll bet she's reading, but I'd love to see her," Cailin clapped his hands together, his smile faltering as Genevieve shook her head, hiding her hands inside of her cloak once more, "Is something wrong? She's not sick, is she?" Cailin furrowed his brow.

"No, Majesty, I suspect not. But I can't magic you a vision of her, it doesn't work that way. I see what has been and what might become, but not what is." Genevieve dipped her head, rising to her feet.

" 'Might' become, Miss?" Cailin faltered, wringing his hands together.

"Nothing is certain, King Cailin."

* * *

Mauve wrenched her spiked mace free of the battered skull of one wolf, only to slam it into the snout of the next. It seemed that the entire pack of them had come to feast on the bodies floating in the mire, and furry corpses littered the damp forest floors. Luckily for their group, none of them had been mortally wounded during the fight.

Ser Jory faltered at every stray chirp, and the wolves that bit at his boots only seemed to make him all the more nervous. The fact that this man was ever a knight infuriated Mauve as she came to his rescue more than once. Alistair and Daveth had joined together, and while Alistair drew the attention of wolves with hoots and hollers, Daveth snuck around behind them and delivered savage gashes to their throats, leaping away and disappearing into the shadowy brush once again before they could round on him.

"Get outta here you mangy mutts!" Daveth snarled, grabbing the snout of the last one by Alistair and ramming his dagger into its neck.

"Is that the last of them?" Mauve called out to Alistair and Daveth, kicking a dying canine away from her boots as even in the moments of its death, it tried to snap at her heels. The kick seemed to finish the job, and it slumped onto its belly, tongue lolling out as listless eyes stared up at Jory—the only one among them who still had a clean blade.

"Looks like it," Alistair murmured, though after a moment he paused, his head rising as he looked off farther towards the south, with his brows furrowed, "We should be careful," he said, stooping to wipe blood from his sword onto the grass.

Daveth looked in the same direction, his lips pressed together as he wiped the blood off on the his leggings, saving one side to wipe off on Mauve's leg. He snickered up at her, dodging a back-hand and then skipping away, his hands raised to block any incoming blows. Evidently, the battle had raised his spirits enough for the jokester to make a quick return.

Mauve scowled and tried to wipe the blood off with the heel of her palm, not having much luck at all. Eventually, Ser Jory joined them, finally seeming to have gained enough nerve to step forward from the one position that he had held. Mutely, he held his sword against his shoulder, trying not to make eye contact with any of the other three.

"Is that a brother?" Jory murmured, pointing past Daveth and into the cattails that stuck up from the murky pond. Floating upside down in the shallow water, a dark-skinned man bloated from the water lay there. The wolves seemed to have left him mostly alone. His pack was still on his back, and had avoided getting wet for the most part.

"What about him?" Mauve snorted, looking back at Jory and shaking her head. If there was one thing that she knew about the religious, it was that none of them had anything valuable to speak of.

"I—I don't recognize him, I never saw him at the Chantry gatherings," Jory explained, stepping towards the body, "Should we not try and see who he is? Perhaps he has family," the knight implored the rest of the group. Daveth and Mauve exchanged a look and a snort, both of them edging away. Only Alistair looked remotely swayed, but that nagging feeling somewhere deep inside of his head kept him preoccupied.

"If you want to dirty your hands, feel free to play keepsake pack-mule, at least you'd make yourself useful that way," Mauve snapped, her nose wrinkling as she turned away from the balding man, rounding the bend and stopping short.

The wolves were eating more than the body in the last clearing.

Daveth nearly ran into her back as he followed, and he quickly covered his nose, muttering a curse as the stench of bile and death wafted up his nose.

"Maker's breath, it smells worse than nug shit," Daveth swore, eying the carnage before his eyes settled on a figure that stirred. Someone had survived? Furrowing his brow, the thief stepped forward and crouched down beside him, poking the man.

"Help, help me—Grey Wardens?" the injured soldier spoke with a mostly clear voice, seeming to be in a state of emotional shock more than anything else.

"Well, he's not nearly as dead as he looks," Alistair commented, dragging a pack from the small of his back, thanking The Maker that Genevieve had forced him to take more bandages than usual, "I've got bandages in my pack," he extracted several strips of thin linen soaked in antiseptic salves.

"Do we really have time for this?" Mauve heaved a sigh through her nose, scuffing her boot in the wet dirt and looking away from the scene.

"Why, have you got somewhere important to be?" Alistair snorted, looking up at her and laughing, "It will just take a moment."

"He's got two hands of his own," the kossith woman grumbled, crossing her arms. Jory joined them while Alistair was bandaging the soldier, and his lower lip and mighty jowls began to tremble at the sight in front of all of them. Gore and carnage. Was that what all of this was going to become? As a knight of Highever, he had never fought monsters. He dueled other knights, people that he knew, and he swore vows to defend the teryn and his family from whatever threat presented itself. Those threats were people—and people weren't so awful. The scene before him couldn't have been done by men. This was the darkspawn?

"They came out of the ground… Blackness, swallowing the trees, swallowing us alive… I've got to—return to camp, warn them," the soldier struggled to his feet, using Alistair to help himself get up. Without waiting for anything else, the soldier stumbled past them.

"Did you hear him?" Jory stuttered, "The spawn slaughtered them all, cut them down like wheat," he exclaimed, head shaking as he blinked several times.

"Calm down Ser Jory, so long as we're careful, we'll be alright," Alistair pushed himself to his feet, tying the pack back to the sturdy belt strapped around his hips. He wouldn't blame the other man if he didn't put any faith in what he said; the carnage in front of them was solid evidence about what they were going to face. He remembered his first darkspawn—it had been terrible… but then, that hadn't been during a Blight.

"Those soldiers were careful, and look what happened to them!"

"Would you shut up, you useless chit?" Mauve fixed the knight with a stern glare, angling her head down at him, her upper lip curling back, "First the chipmunks, then the toads, wolves, and now a few dead bodies are scaring you? Will you shit yourself when the darkspawn actually show themselves?" she jeered at him, her patience long since having torn itself asunder.

Gripping the handle of her mace and axe tighter, Mauve kept her lips curled back as she pinned her arms to her sides, forcing herself to look away from the nearly bald man to keep from throttling him on the spot.

"I'm not afraid! I'm just worried," Jory hurried to defend his honor.

"It's alright to be afraid, Ser Jory, few relish meeting Darkspawn up close, besides our horned friend, here," Alistair jerked his thumb at Mauve, who merely snorted in response, "Personally, I'm relying on her to protect me," he spoke in mockingly sweet tones, either showing her how her mockery stung, or simply trying to lighten the burn of her venom. "Either way, so long as I'm here, you'll know when they're close. You'll have time to prepare."

"Yeah! You see, Ser Knight? We might die, but at least we'll be warned!" Daveth punched Jory in the upper portions of his arm, and the knight slumped his shoulders, muttering something about that being at least partly fair.

"Now lets get a move on before the sun sets, we've got a lot of ground to cover… and be on your look out, the darkspawn are close," Alistair warned them, tightening the strap of his shield. The four of them made their way through the wreckage and carnage, Ser Jory lagging behind all the while.

* * *

As the King left her, her Commander came to take his place. The two men passed each other, exchanging glances with one another as they walked in opposite directions, neither seeming in the mood for idle talk. The time for talking would be during the strategy meeting later in the night, for now, they both had final preparations to make.

"You didn't eat anything, did you?" Genevieve looked up at him, a sadness settling into her heart at his grim features. He shook his head, and she sighed, turning herself around to face him on the table. Walking towards her, Duncan stood directly in front of the concealed woman, staring down at her for several moments before he reached his hands up to draw back her hood to get a better look at her face.

It was obvious why she hid it from people—a jagged, knotted ridge of flesh worked its way down from just above her right eye, over her nose, and down to the left side of her jaw. The old wound left her right eye clouded and covered with a vulture-like film, milky and useless to the world around it. Her skin was darker than his own, a mark of her Rivaini heritage—as were the beaded locks of hair, meticulously divided and sized into a fashion that the Chasind and more rural Rivaini still favored. Tattoos had been etched into her skin, and as Duncan lifted the thick dreadlocks from her neck and pushed them back over her shoulders, he could see one of the designed crawling up from her collarbone and up the side of her neck.

He had become quite familiar with that one.

"I thought you said you would never entertain kings," Duncan murmured fondly, his other hand rising, still gloved, to stroke her cheek—mindful of the small glittering diamond that had been imbedded seamlessly into the skin covering her cheekbone.

"I told him the truth, and nothing more," Genevieve smiled, nuzzling into her commander's hand and sighing gently. "There's hope for him to live. Nothing is certain, but at least I could see it," she said, clasping her hand over the top of Duncan's.

"Duncan…" Genevieve pressed her lips together, hesitantly bringing up her free hand to try and touch the bare skin of his face or his neck.

"No." his voice was firm as he arched his neck back from her, quickly grabbing onto her wrists and pushing them down into her lap, keeping them pinned there. At the hurt confusion in her eyes, Duncan merely shook his head again, stooping over to kiss the cloth on her shoulder with an aching tenderness. "I don't want your prophecies, I don't want to know what might happen—I just want you right here with me," Duncan whispered, turning his head so that his breath puffed gently against the flesh of the younger woman's neck.

"What if I want to know, Duncan?" Genevieve breathed, a knot lodged tight in her throat. He hadn't let her touch his skin with hers for a month, always saying that it was he that didn't want to know his fate, telling her that it was in The Maker's hands. Lately, and especially tonight, she doubted his reasonings. He knew just as well as any of them that he might die—it wasn't dying that he feared, it wasn't a grim knowledge that it might be his last night. She had heard him mumbling in his sleep for the past two years. He had already begun to hear The Calling. If it wasn't this battle that he died in, it would just be another one some other time.

No, it wasn't hearing that he might die that frightened him.

He just didn't want to see the heartbreak on Genevieve's face if she saw his end.

Still shaking his head, Duncan hugged her head against his chest, letting out a shaking breath. It made him ache to have to keep her at arm's length like this, but he knew that it was for the best. She might not realize it now, but in time she would come around.

"Do you remember how we met?" Duncan said, a smile pulling at his chapped and split lips as he tried to rouse happier memories for her to focus on, instead of the vast unknown before them, "Before we all came to Ferelden… I took in a little stray cat," the older man's smile reached his eyes for the first time in days, and a chuckle resonated inside of his chest.

"And you spoiled her rotten," Genevieve purred quietly, bringing a dark-skinned hand up to rest it on Duncan's breastplate, doing her best to relish whatever contact he allowed her to have with him.

"To her core," Duncan agreed, laughing quietly, stopping himself just as his chin was about to make contact with the thick, healthy dreadlocks. He didn't know exactly what the rules of touch with Genevieve were, he doubted that she would see anything if his chin touched her hair—but it was better to be on the safe side. "And one day, I retire to my rooms, and there's a young woman lying in the corner, using the cat bed as a pillow, and little Genevieve's not anywhere in sight," he kept speaking, keeping her focused on the comical way that they had come to be truly introduced to one another.

A fugitive, Genevieve had fled The Free Marches, shifting into an unassuming house cat to escape detection. For months, she had found shelter for herself in the grey warden outpost that Duncan had been stationed at, and the older man had taken a liking to the idea of a companion that would never judge him or break his trust… right up until the moment his loving feline turned out to be a human woman, revealing herself and the truth only because she planned on leaving.

He had conscripted her that night, forcing her to go through with the Joining, thinking that the ritual itself would kill her, and all of what she had learned while trotting around at his side for five months. Luckily, she survived. A shape-shifter was an odd recruit to have, as no one knew quite how to train her, but it seemed that Genevieve—she never had given her true name, and for that, Duncan was grateful—knew all she needed to to be a formidable force.

"And you still loved her?" Genevieve craned her neck to look up at the haggard face of the older man, a sad smile pulling at her lips. Perhaps, after the battle, he would kiss her as tenderly as he had before once more. As though reading her thoughts, Duncan kissed his gloved fingertips and then pressed the soft leather underside to her full lips.

"Yes," Duncan breathed, his voice breaking, "And I still do."

* * *

Not but twenty paces from the wreckage and carnage, the darkspawn showed themselves. Their skin was wrinkled and covered in half-dried blood, mud, and bile. Lidless eyes stared out at them from across the bog, and within a moment, fanged teeth spread wide in a shout of glee.

"Genlocks! Go for soft spots, and don't try to over-power them!" Alistair shouted, warning the recruits. Each of them looked stunned, even Mauve and her temper. "Now! Go!" he shouted, raising his shield and running out into the clearing, keeping his back to an impossibly large falling tree so that none of the beasts could flank him. Daveth and Mauve roused themselves from their stunned stares at his shout, the human thief disappearing into the shadows.

Mauve joined Alistair, adjusting her grip on her weapons and staring down at the wrinkled faces of the monsters as they charged towards them on chubby legs. They wore armor and held weapons—how was it that they had come by them? No smith would make weapons and arms that looked like that, did they make their own?

The thought was a frightening one. What else could they make?

The first genlock to reach them was met with Alistair's shield, a hard blow that sent it staggering. His sword glanced off of the shoulderguard, but the slam of Mauve's mace smashed the creature's skull like an over-ripe pumpkin, bits of flesh, bone, and brain matter sticking to the spikes on the mace.

As they recovered, Daveth lunged from the shadows and hilted his dagger into the neck of another genlock, flaying it open and darting away. It was by luck alone that he wasn't hit by the barbed arrows that a much taller creature shot from a poorly crafted bow.

"I'll draw his fire, you two cut him off!" Alistair ordered, raising his shield and hitting it with the butt of his sword to draw the hurlock's attention away from the others in a very clear threat. There were other darkspawn approaching from the cover of the trees not far away, but if they hurried, they could kill this one, collect the blood for the ritual, and make away in the cover of the shadows before the other darkspawn caught up with them.

An arrow glanced off of his shield, and Alistair continued his dash up the hill, trying to rush the Hurlock archer before it had a chance to consider doing anything other than pelt him with more arrows.

Another arrow whizzed past him, but just as he glanced over his shield to see where to swing his sword, the Hurlock shrieked and gurgled, thrashing as Mauve's axe lodged itself inside of its gut, breaking through the armor as though it were nothing but melted cheese. Daveth joined her, leaping up and hooking his knees under the hurlock's armpits, wrenching the helmet off of the puckered, wrinkled, awful face of the creature, his daggers spinning in his palms before he shoved them straight into the widened eyes, right into the monster's brain.

Mauve extracted her axe, and Daveth jerked his daggers free, hopping off of the monster's back as it crumpled in a heap. The three of them began to laugh, the heat of battle still thrumming in their veins. The distant shouting and yowling of darkspawn fast on their way cut the celebration short, and Mauve and Daveth quickly extracted their vials, ripping open the creature's neck in an effort to fill their vials faster.

"Jory, your vial!" Mauve shouted, looking up to see what had become of the knight.

His sword was left abandoned on the ground, and the vial along with it.

When she brought her gaze higher, she saw his form fleeing back the way that they had come, trapped in a state of terror fit for a cow nearing the slaughter.

"Forget it, we have to move!" Daveth jabbed her in the side with his knuckles, grabbing onto her arm and waving Alistair over to come with them. The blonde man seemed conflicted, not wanting to leave one of the recruits behind, but with the sound of the number of darkspawn approaching, what choice was there? With a curse, he wrinkled his nose and followed after the bandits, weapons still drawn and at the ready.

The top of the tower that had been a warden outpost years ago loomed up through the trees, and if they kept up their mad dash—they might reach it and have time to get the treaties before the darkspawn caught up with them. He knew it was a long shot, but the only other option was to stay and fight every monster that came through the trees, and he didn't like the sound of that at all.


	7. Chapter 6, Trust & Treaties

**A/N - Duncevieve Feels. That is all. It might be a few days before I get the next chapter out. There's a lot to go into that one. Anyway, enjoy.**

* * *

"I'll kill that damned knight myself! I'll wring his fucking neck between my hands!" Mauve raved heaving fallen rubble out of the way, tossing it all back behind them in an effort to block the way into the ruins to prevent their followers from rushing them head long. This way, at the very least, they would have time to prepare themselves.

"Less talkin' an' more diggin' if you please!" Daveth shouted over his shoulder at her, gloved hands digging through dust and debris. Alistair was off in another corner entirely, heaving rocks and fallen branches out of the way, trying to locate the antique chest that Duncan had told him about before they had left.

Everything else in the tower seemed to have been looted and picked clean. Only rotten remnants of unidentifiable objects remained, but there was enough of that to make their search all the more difficult. The darkspawn were closing in—their shouts grew louder and louder, and if the way they split off was anything to go by, the monsters had decided to try and surround them and trap them within the tower.

"Here, here, I've got it!" Alistair laughed nervously, prying the broken lid of the chest off of the rest of it. The fact that it had been broken into didn't sink in until he crammed his hand into it, feeling for the treaties. There was nothing. No tube, no old envelope, no artifacts…

"Well, well… what have we here?" It was a woman's voice, and it came from somewhere above them in the ruins. Alistair turned about quickly, his shield raised, adjusting his grip on the hilt of his sword. A woman with bright eyes and messy hair stood at the top of the slope, but once she had her audience, she began the slow descent, smiling as the three companions went closer to each other, taking up a more defensive pattern against the unknown.

"Are you a vulture, I wonder? A scavenger, poking amidst the bones of a creature long since picked clean?" Morrigan smiled at them, but it was a predatory grin, and not one that spoke of good tidings.

"We're just here for the shitty treaties," Daveth cursed, "Wolves, Darkspawn, and now a witch of the wilds—give me a cannibal, and I'll be four for four," he muttered sourly, kicking a stone away, "She'll put us in the pot, she will, mark my words."

The woman laughed outright at him, striding around the group as though she were a wolf among sheep, hoisting herself easily up onto a higher ledge, leaning against the wall and looking them over, "Such idle fancies, those legends. You there, qunari—it's been many years since your kind came into the darkspawn filled wilds of mine; you do not frighten like these little boys, do you?" she arched her brows, looking the woman over with curiosity. She had never seen a female qunari before… they looked quite fearsome.

"We don't have time for this, where are the treaties?" Mauve snapped, looking off into the wilds that they had come from. The darkspawn drew ever closer, weaving their way through the trees and the fog. There were too many of them.

"That's it? No introductions?" Morrigan put her fingertips over her heart as though it had broken over this, sulking quite terribly, "You've made my heart ache. That's very rude."

"Those treaties are Grey Warden property, hand them over or face the consequences," Alistair spoke up, adjusting his grip on his weapon and shield. Duncan hadn't said anything about hedge witches swooping in and stealing the blasted treaties… it just affirmed the age old saying—swooping was bad.

"I will not, for t'was not I that removed them." Morrigan protested, bringing a hand up to examine her nails. Their anxiety meant nothing to her, and neither did the fast approaching group of Darkspawn she could hear coming through the trees. If they got too close, she could just as easily turn into a sparrow and flit through the trees, unseen and unheard. Her life was in no danger—she could have her fun.

"Then who did?" the kossith stepped towards her, impatience and anger blazing in her eyes.

"T'was my mother, in fact." Morrigan nearly sneered down at her. The darkspawn were growing louder, and there were tiny beads of sweat beginning to bubble up on their foreheads and necks. If she waited long enough, they might beg her. She liked that idea.

"Then could you take us to her?" Mauve rubbed her forehead, her breath coming in short puffs.

"Ah, and that, my dear, is the first sensible thing I've heard out of any of you," Morrigan giggled, waving her hand and beckoning them over to her, "Come along now, before the darkspawn catch up and cut your throats." They were more than happy to oblige.

* * *

Genevieve had managed to coax Duncan off into the tall grass just outside of the empty courtyard. They did not make love, as she wished that they could have, but instead they lay beside each other, Duncan using the excuse of age to set his back against a section of old wall while Genevieve leaned against him, following the intricate patterns of his armor with her fingertips. His hands rubbed the center of her back, feeling taut muscles that no one would expect from a mage underneath her robes.

"Can we talk about it, Duncan?" she asked him, nothing but her eyes rolling up to look at his face. Even now, in this quiet, shadowy place, with nothing but her form pressed against him and nothing but the sounds of crickets and distant clangs of soldiers preparing themselves, his face was strained. He had lost some of the fullness to his cheeks, and the shadows underneath his eyes had grown deeper than before.

Where was that lively spark? Where was the man that kissed her tenderly and gave her trinkets, if only to catch an extra smile from her?

Duncan shook his head slowly, bringing a hand up to brush his fingertips down across her eyelids, making them close again. She relented to his touch, shifting against him and pressing her forehead against the cool metal of his breastplate.

"In the battle tonight, Alistair, Mauve, and Daveth will be sent to the tower. They will be charged with lighting the beacon to signal the reinforcements," Duncan began slowly, petting her hair, his chin angling down towards his chest to get a better look at her. She snorted at his words, her head shaking gently, even as she kept her eyes closed.

"I'm sure they'll be thrilled to hear that. And what of Ser Jory?" Genevieve asked him, slumping farther down and rolling on her back, laying herself across his lap and dragging his hand down over her breast, forcing him to cup it and feel her heartbeat beneath. Duncan's hand remained limp, but he allowed her to position him however she wanted him.

"Jory has all of the training that comes with knighthood; he can be trusted on a battlefield. Mauve is a formidable foe, but a loose cannon. She will need discipline and training before I trust her in a battlefield with as much chaos as the one to come. As for Daveth, he'd quick on his feet, but equally flighty." Duncan shrugged his shoulders. If he had the time to mold Mauve and Daveth, they could easily become fighters fit to equal Garahel.

Genevieve pursed her lip, drumming her fingertips over Duncan's gauntlet as she thought this over. In her own opinion, Jory didn't have the wits nor the spine to be anything more than a lackey—another body to toss to the darkspawn. His heart wasn't even in the right place. He wasn't joining because he truly wished to defeat the blight—he wished to become a warden because of the reputation that it carried. She liked Daveth, he was sweet, and he had quick wits and faster hands. Mauve… she didn't know what to think of Mauve.

"I suppose you haven't told them of your decision?" She said, opening her only good eye to look up at Duncan. His free hand quickly rose to shut it again, and she smiled, giggling quietly.

"They will know after the Joining… I want you to go with Alistair and the others, should they survive." Duncan finished, trying to harden his tone as he began to push down on her with the hand at her breast, preventing her from rising up from her position when her protests began—and begin they did, like a torrential downpour.

"Are you mad, Duncan? No! I refuse," Genevieve snapped, struggling under his hand, finding enough strength in her to push his arm off of her as she rose to her feet, bristling with indignation, "First you refuse to let me sleep in your tent at night, then you no longer touch me, you hardly speak to me or look at me—and now this? I was to be by your side until you answered The Calling, and you take this from me now, too?" Genevieve curled her hands into fists, and it seemed that even her ruined, cloudy eye had enough rage in it to glitter dangerously.

"Genevieve…" Duncan started, only to have her thrust her hand at him, an unseen force holding him firmly against the piece of wall he had selected.

"No, Duncan! No! I could be with you—I _should _be with you, it is my right!" she snarled, a certain feral quality to her tone, her voice almost close to the bestial growls and hisses that she was accustomed to in her various animal forms. "I've been nothing but loyal to you and I have given you no reason to doubt me, why do you send me away from you, especially now?" she demanded, the hurt she felt seeping into her voice.

"Because I love you, Genevieve," Duncan whispered to her, catching her gaze and holding it at length, his lips parted with more hurt than she would have expected, "I cannot fight in this battle, I cannot do my duty if you are there. I will _always _put you first, and I cannot. _You _cannot ask me to make that decision, or to have to see you being attacked and expect me not to come to your aide and kill the darkspawn that come remotely close to you. There are others that I have to watch out for, the King will be down there, and he cannot fall," Duncan implored her, managing to rise to his feet despite the steady pressure against his chest. Slipping to the side, he freed himself from it and went to her, grabbing onto her forearms to prevent her from pacing, turning her around to make her look at him.

"But he will not fall, Duncan, I've seen his fate!" Genevieve remained unconvinced.

"Hush, Woman!" Duncan shook her, then hauled her into an embrace, crushing her against his breastplate and wishing fervently that he could just touch her, pour out his love for her, and make her see reason. "Do not fight this, do not fight me. I ask this of you because I love you, more than anything in this world—please, do this for me, and when it is over, I swear to you that I will never again send you from my side," he pleaded desperately, his voice husky with grief and want. Her hands fought in his grip, her fingers stretching out to try and reach his face or his neck. Duncan's nose wrinkled, and he forced them lower, his heart wrenching as she began to sob against his armor.

"Why will you not let me see, Duncan? Why can I not look?" she cried, beating her fists against his armor, but not moving away from him.

"Trust in _me, _Genevieve, not your magic," Duncan whispered, shutting his eyes tightly and clinging to her, trying to still her struggling and to calm her grief. It pained him to see it, and it hurt him even more to know that he had been the cause of it, but she would be better for it.

Wouldn't she?

* * *

Daveth had no idea how far they had walked. It seemed like such a short distance, but each time he looked back, the path that they had taken seemed to stretch on to such impossible extents. The noise the darkspawn had made, those awful screams and shouts, disappeared as though they had never been. Here, wherever 'here' was, the swampy forests were peaceful. Dragonflies hovered over the bogs, frogs grumbled to one another, and birds even made daring swoops to catch their evening meal.

It was an oasis free from the corruption of the blight—but it felt so much more dangerous.

Goosebumps rose on his skin, and Daveth kept the hilts of his daggers in his hands, brown eyes constantly flicking this way and that, trying to catch a peek of the new threat before it saw him. What they came upon was, perhaps, the last thing that he expected.

Up on stilts—something that was very common for the chasind—a little cottage stood alone on a patch of mostly dry grass, leaned against a tree. Fire rose from the chimney. That meant that something was cooking—or water was boiling, at the very least. He wondered how big the pot was. Daveth swallowed.

"When she tries to pot us, you clout her over the head, and I'll gut her," Daveth hissed to Alistair. The Templar almost seemed to consider this, but in the end, he waved the thief away. To Daveth's relief, however, it seemed that he was content to keep a firm grip on his weapons, as well.

An old woman emerged from the cottage as they made their way across a bridge, and the group of wardens stopped short, each of them eying the grey-haired woman. She appeared disheveled and withered, with liver spots beginning to form very lightly across the backs of her hands and the soft portions of her neck. Age had claimed her, certainly, and from the glimmer in her eyes and the predatory smile, each of them wondered if perhaps it had claimed her sanity, as well.

"Greetings, Mother, I bring before you three Grey Wardens who—"

"I see them, Girl. I have eyes, you know," the old woman laughed, and it seemed disturbingly loud in the pocket of quiet that they had found themselves in. The woman brought her hands up, smoothing down her frazzled, unkempt hair as she stepped forward, thin lips trembling as she looked each of them over, letting out small contemplative noises.

"Hm, much as I expected," she huffed, nodding her head.

Alistair tilted his head, his lips curling up into a skeptical smirk. Beside him, Mauve snorted with distaste. "Are we supposed to believe that you were expecting us?" he made no effort to conceal his thoughts on the matter form his tone of voice.

"You are required to do nothing, least of all believe," the old woman shrugged, her eyes focusing on him with a startling intensity. It seemed to Alistair that she might never blink, "Shut one's eyes tight, or open one's arms wide—either way, one's a fool."

"She's a witch, I tell you. We shouldn't be talking to her," Daveth grumbled, keeping his voice lowered, and refusing to make eye contact. He had grown up at the very edge of the wilds, in a town so small that it wasn't on any map of Ferelden.

"If she's really a witch, do you want to make her mad?" Mauve muttered right back at him, elbowing him in the shoulder.

"Oh? Is that what you believe, my dear?" the old hag grinned up at Mauve, stepping closer to her and reaching out with shaking hands. Forcing herself to stay still, Mauve scowled at the woman as her hands gripped her forearm.

"I think you're batty as nugshit," Mauve quipped, slowly retracting her arm and glaring up at Morrigan, who had slithered away some distance, but remained close to her mother, watching the exchange with interest.

"Huh, maybe you're right. So much about you is uncertain. And yet I believe—do I? Why, yes, it seems I do." The old woman smiled pleasantly, looking off into the distance, "A shame you couldn't bring her, I would have loved to see a woman like her," she murmured wistfully. None of them seemed to know what she was talking about. But then, that was a common occurrence, it seemed.

"Sooo… This is a dreaded 'witch of the wilds'?" Alistair spoke up, glancing sidelong at Daveth, who sulked and shot him a warning look.

"Ha! Witch of the Wilds… Morrigan must have told you that. She fancies such tales—though she would never admit it… Oh, how she dances under the moon…" the batty woman flitted her hands about as though they were butterflies, and Mauve wrinkled her nose and shrank back from them as though they carried the plague.

"They did not come to listen to your wild tales, Mother…" Morrigan glowered, some bit of color in her cheeks.

"True," Flemmeth blinked, and it seemed the same deadly intensity returned to her expression, "Their treaties, yes? And before you begin barking, your precious seal wore off long ago. I have protected these." She withdrew old parchment from her apron, extending them towards Alistair, as the taint was most severe within him.

"You—you protected them?" Alistair stuttered, seeming baffled by the very idea.

"And why not? Now go—and tell your Grey Wardens that this Blight's threat is greater than they realize," she grumbled, her voice becoming quite scratchy and very ancient. Mauve couldn't seem to unwrinkled her nose, and it seemed that the entire time, she had been holding her breath.

"What's she mean by that?" Daveth whispered to Alistair, still not looking at either Flemmeth or Morrigan. Despite his lowered voice, the old hag still heard him, and she barked out a loud laugh again, folding her hands over her stomach.

"Either that the threat is greater, or that they realize less! Or perhaps the threat is nothing—or maybe they realize nothing! Haha!" she cawed for several moments, bringing a hand up to wipe away a tear from her hysterics. Finally getting ahold of herself, she let out a sigh, smiling pleasantly, "Oh, but do not mind me, you have what you came for," she gestured towards the treaties.

The younger of the two witches perked up, forcing a smile that was half-way to pleasant.

"Right, time for you to go, then," she started to raise her hand to point the direction that they had come, but as she did, her mother grasped her hand, pulling her forward and then pushing her towards the three wardens, all of which glared at her as though she may explode into fire at any moment.

"Don't be crazy, dear girl, these are your guests!" her mother cackled.

Morrigan looked over each of the wardens, and the skin around her eyes tightened with irritation as she rolled her eyes, heaving a sigh and slumping forward, snatching her staff from the puddle of mud that she had imbedded it in.

"Come along, then," she sighed once more, walking several paces ahead of them.

The three wardens traveled silently behind her, their hands resting on their weapons, each of them viewing her as possibly a greater threat than the Darkspawn. Half a mile outside of the ruins, they found Jory, standing quietly against stone rubble, his sword resting against his shoulder, and a full vial of blood clasped in his free hand. The color was still all but gone from his face, and he refused to meet any of their eyes, and while Alistair and Daveth were content to ignore him, Mauve shot him a glare so fierce that her eyes might have been hot pokers.

Together, they returned to the ruins, none of them looking back to see Morrigan disappearing back into the swamps.


	8. Chapter 7, Blood & Bones

With the preparations in order, Genevieve and Duncan had returned to the pillars to await the new recruits. Duncan paced, alternating between looking out at the southern gate and staring into the pit of the fires. Genevieve sat, and she whittled. The sun had long since set beyond the horizon, and within a few hours, the anticipated—and dreaded—battle would begin. There were ambitious plans for this battle, but if successful, they could easily crush the bulk of the horde and have enough time to prepare before the next spawn of the broodmothers reached maturity.

If they failed…

Genevieve blinked the thought away, angling her knife at a different spot to gain more twerk, chipping away more flecks of wood. The world wasn't prepared for a failure. Ferelden had roused itself to the challenge, if only because the king was loved by the people, and charismatic enough to sway the lords after several months of meetings. If he hadn't put forth the effort, she doubted very seriously that things would be going nearly as well as they were now.

"They're here," Duncan stopped pacing, turning to face the group of four as they trumped up the path. Each of the new recruits held a vial of dark blood in one of their hands. None of them looked worse for wear, though all of them appeared anxious and unsettled.

Genevieve rose to her feet, grey robes shifting around her legs as she moved closer to Duncan, looking out from behind him. Reaching up to touch the thick straps across his back, she offered him a smile, drawing her hood up over her head and concealing herself in shadows once more. There was still much to do.

"I'll meet you all in the courtyard," she said, turning away from them.

* * *

o0O-O0o-o0O-O0o

* * *

Daveth's left eye had been twitching ever since that awful witch had whisked them through the woods. It felt unnatural, and it was at least half as terrible as being turned into a frog and shoved inside of a pot. Reaching up with his free-hand, Daveth smacked the heel of his palm against his eye and forehead a few times, trying to get the nervous twitching to stop.

"Would you stop doing that?" Mauve snipped at him.

The scoundrel shot the qunari a scowl, waiting until she looked away from him before he pushed her shoulder. Unfortunately, she was too tall and robust for it to do anything more than shift her torso. Still, that was enough for her to round on him and try to sock him in his other, not-twitching eye. Ducking out of the way, Daveth quickly slipped over behind Alistair before the horned woman could try to hit him again, and the thief snorted with laughter, and to his surprise, for several long moments, the twitching in his eye had stopped!

But then he saw Duncan and his personal witch staring out at them as they approached, and it started up all over again. Curling his upper lip back, Daveth's shoulders slumped, and he turned the vial in the palm of his hand over and over again.

"So what is this for, is it just a trophy? Some proof we did the deed? Damn lucky I didn't have to do this with my first woman…" Daveth mumbled. He could see Alistair's cheeks pinking somewhat, even in the darkness, and the junior warden turned his head to look down at him, seeming confused.

"You mean they all actually…?" he trailed off, bringing a hand up to rub the back of his neck nervously.

Ordinarily, he would have been happy to discuss women—it was one of his favorite topics!—but something about having to carry around a vial of darkspawn blood seemed a little too pressing to get into the matter.

"Alistair, I'll tell you all about it later, but—the blood?" He reminded him.

"Right. Ah, no. Sorry. It gets worse." Alistair forced a laugh, looking away from Daveth.

Daveth's eye twitched violently.

* * *

o0O-O0o-o0O-O0o

* * *

Mauve's eyes flicked off to the robed woman that snuck off the moment they returned. She didn't like that very much. The entire process had been too secretive for her tastes, and she wanted answers. Raven had never told her the explicit details of her plans, and Mauve was more than certain that that was why she had died. Pursing her lips, Mauve raised her vial up in the firelight, wiggling it for Duncan to see.

"Your Templar's got your treaties," she grumbled, jerking her thumb at Alistair, who was busy trying to withdraw the documents from the simple pack that the witch had given him.

"Duncan, that chest was empty," Alistair spoke abnormally softly for a man that she had just seen smash the skull of a darkspawn with his shield, "We found your treaties only because two hedge witches had kept them in their hut," there was an almost accusing note to his tone, and his eyes shifted, as though he suspected that there was more to the story than simple coincidence.

"Never mind that, Alistair. I know your Templar training urges you to take action, but you are a Warden first and foremost. That they protected them speaks well enough of them," Duncan murmured, but his eyes were distant.

"The vials?" Duncan blinked, looking up at the three new recruits.

Mauve pursed her lips, waiting until Jory and Daveth had stepped forward to hand over their own before she joined them, eying Duncan suspiciously. More secrets, and even less answers. It did not bode well.

* * *

o0O-O0o-o0O-O0o

* * *

Alistair shifted uncomfortably as the recruits stepped forward, but he took a moment to look each of them over. He hated this part. Every warden had stories of the companions that had traveled with them for the gathering process, but so few seemed to know anyone that had survived. As far as he had seen, there was only two out of a set of triplets that had actually survived together.

With luck, at least one of the three recruits would survive, but he wasn't about to let his hopes get too high. The chances were slim enough as it was.

"Come on, then, we'd best get this over with so there's still time," Alistair murmured, his head shaking as he stepped forward, his head lowered, trying not to look any of them in the eye. The eyes were what he hated. In his joining, it had only been himself and one other—a woman with bright green eyes that seemed to burn from the inside out. When he slept, he still saw them, sometimes, gaping up at him and bursting with pain.

The last thing he wanted was for three more pairs of eyes to join hers.

Duncan walked beside him, and the three recruits lagged behind. They were murmuring amongst themselves about something, but he either couldn't hear or didn't care to hear what it was.

"What do you think?" He asked Duncan, shifting his eyes towards the haggard side of his commander's face. The last several months hadn't been at all kind to Duncan—he could still remember a time when the old bastard smiled. It all seemed so far away now.

"It's in The Maker's hands now," Duncan whispered, his breath heavy behind the words.

Alistair's nose wrinkled at the grief in Duncan's words, and it took several moments for him to realize why—how blind had he been? He had only one pair of eyes staring up at him in his dreams. How many Joinings had Duncan witnessed? Exactly how many potential recruits had he seen to their graves, one way or another? Alistair bit the inside of his cheek, glancing back over his shoulder to look at the recruits, all three of which looked back at him.

How many were they going to add to the number tonight?

* * *

o0O-O0o-o0O-O0o

* * *

Genevieve gathered the vials from Duncan as the group caught up with her, and she took a moment to examine each of them. Two of the vials were dark and corrupt—a greenish black hue to the blood inside of it. She had seen Darkspawn blood many times before, and she had prepared the ritual enough to know the color of the blood she was working with.

One vial, however, the vial that Jory handed over, did not show signs of the same corruption. There was not an emptiness inside of the liquid, a shadow tucked inside so deep that it threatened to break free and consume everything around it. This vial held blood the usual color and shade from living things. Her brows furrowed, and as she set them down next to the large goblet with the dragon bone base, Genevieve kept this one in her hand.

It was not the first time a recruit had taken blood from something other than a darkspawn—it was why they had begun to travel in groups. But what had happened, and how had he managed it without the other recruits taking notice? The witch clicked her tongue and bit down on the cork of the vial, tugging it free with her teeth. With a quick sniff, she confirmed her suspicions. Chances were, the blood came from an ordinary woodland creature. Jory had not completed his task.

Once the rest of the group had entered the courtyard, Genevieve beckoned Duncan over with a quick wave. Frowning, he came to her, and the witch stood on her toes to whisper into his ear. His face darkened, and the commander looked back at the group, drawing in a deep breath and letting it out in a sigh.

"I will do it for you," she volunteered, resting her hands on his wrist, picking idly at the leather straps that she found there. Relief settled over his face, replacing the exhaustion that had sunken in once again. His head tipped down, and he pressed his forehead against the cloak that shrouded her head in thanks. Turning her eyes back to the recruits, Genevieve stepped forward and pointed to Ser Jory.

"There are still materials that I need help collecting, Ser Knight. Would you accompany me and help me bring them here?" she forced a smile beneath her hood, hoping that it extended at least partially to her voice. Reluctantly, the knight departed from the other two recruits and came to stand beside her, waiting further instruction. What he would meet next would seal his fate.

* * *

o0O-O0o-o0O-O0o

* * *

A tingling spine had joined in with his eye twitch, and Daveth hated every second of it. The knight looked like he was going to piss himself, Duncan looked somber, Genevieve was calculating, Alistair seemed to be about to sob with grief, and Mauve wanted to skewer anything that came near her. The lot of them must have looked quite the part—each of them strung out of frayed nerves, and only some of them knowing why. When the knight left them, he knew better than to question it. The joining was going to take place here. He knew that. He also knew that there wasn't anything particularly heavy required for the ritual. He'd heard older wardens discussing their joinings while he had been snooping about earlier in the week.

They drank something. They drank something that tasted like shit, choked on it, and passed out. The goblet already had murky looking shit inside of it. Whatever the witch had in mind for Ser Jory, it had little or nothing to do with taking his joining.

"How's about we all help carry that shit, ah? It'll go a mite faster," his brow tightened ever so slightly, amber eyes flicking between Genevieve and Duncan, trying to gauge their reactions and figure out what all of this was about.

"That won't be necessary. It is only one crate. Stay with Duncan, Ser Jory and I will return shortly," Genevieve spoke in a tone Daveth had heard many times before. It was guarded and veiled, hiding secrets and true intentions behind mild manners. Still, if there was one thing that he knew about that tone of voice, it was that contradicting it was a bad thing. Bad things happened to those who tried to go against a tone like that one. Some small part of him wanted to warn Jory somehow, or to step in between the witch and the knight, but his own common sense and feelings of self-preservation knew better than to interfere.

"Just… Don't be too long, a gaggle of crows might carry both of you off, and right to the darkspawn," he mumbled, looking away from the two. He couldn't look Ser Jory in the eye, and he didn't want to look into Genevieve's, fearing what he might see.

* * *

o0O-O0o-o0O-O0o

* * *

Mauve was too busy edging closer to the goblet and curling her nose at what was inside of it to pay much attention to the subtle squabbles and protests going on behind her. Something about crates and crows—what did it matter? The goal of what they had been sent out to do was right in front of them, and now they were stalling once again. She wanted to take the plunge. The fine silver hairs on the backs of her arms began to bristle with anticipation. Ever since Duncan had taken her off of the executioners platform, it had been one event after the next, with very little wait in between. There was no time to think, no time to dwell, just action and more action.

She didn't want to dwell. She needed to keep moving.

"We say only a few words before each Joining," Duncan murmured. Mauve felt his eyes run over her, and she looked up in time to see the older man quickly looking away once again, moving them to Daveth, as though trying to memorize each of their faces as they were now, before the beginning of it all.

"Alistair, if you would…" Duncan said, nodding towards the blonde human man.

"Join us, brothers and sisters," Alistair started, doing his best to avoid Mauve and Daveth's eyes as he recited the ages old traditional words, "Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn…" he paused, drawing in a deeper breath that seemed to shudder the more he tried to gather it. It was only then that he actually looked up at Mauve, catching her eye and holding it for several seconds as he gathered himself again. Her eyes narrowed.

"And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten, and that one day we shall join you," Alistair's voice had grown quieter, and after a glance between the two new recruits, he looked down at his boots for a time, waiting for Duncan to hand over the chalice with the liquid that would mark either their new beginnings, or their ends.

* * *

o0O-O0o-o0O-O0o

* * *

"Daveth, step forward," Duncan called to him, and the thief reluctantly answered, his eyes narrowing as he tipped his chin up. Whatever this was, it was necessity. Grasping the chalice in his hands, he brought it closer to his mouth and nose, and the pungent, toxic smell alone was enough to make his eyes burn. It reminded him strongly of a time when he had gone to an abandoned shed several miles outside of the lands his father tended for the minor lord he served—the entire shack had been overrun with feral cats, and they had pissed and shit all over it, leaving a cloud of foul smelling waste in their wake.

Even that wasn't as terrible as this.

Flicking his eyes between Duncan and Alistair, he stole a glance back at Mauve, forcing a lopsided smirk as he did so. She looked so severe; all of them did.

"How about a kiss for some good luck, eh Mauvie?" he teased her, touching his bottom lip to the rim of the chalice.

"Just drink the fucking sludge shit," Mauve cursed at him, though if Daveth was even a mite good at reading people—that little flicker in her eyes must have meant she thought about it! That boded well for his conquests.

"Cheers," he said, tipping the chalice up.

The taste wasn't horrifying. It was bad, but not unbearable. What was unbearable was the way that the thick liquid burned the inside of his mouth and throat, making him feel like it was going to sear a hole right through his neck and kill him on the spot. He coughed and sputtered, trying to keep it down. Duncan must have taken the chalice back from him, because his hands were empty as he brought them to his throat, struggling with the pain. His world spun, and he heard an awful muttering some place deep inside of him, and when his head hit the floor, he barely noticed.

But, against all of the odds, Daveth groaned, and he lived.

* * *

o0O-O0o-o0O-O0o

* * *

"What's it doing to him?" Mauve demanded, trying to force her hands to relax from the fists that they had curled into as she watched Daveth fall to the ground and writhe before going still, wheezing and breathing unsteadily. Alistair and Duncan didn't respond right away—they stared instead at Daveth's chest and the lifebeat in the side of his neck, tracking it, watching to make sure that it didn't fade away forever.

"Corrupting him, or killing him. It's hard to say with some recruits," Alistair murmured gently, as though trying to reassure her. It only made her stomach churn even more, and it almost made her feel guilty for not granting the annoying human a good luck kiss.

"Well… You're up," Alistair looked up at her, and Mauve narrowed her eyes at him, her shoulders rolling forward defensively. It felt like a game of poisons that had been played in one of the bandit camps she'd grown up in. Several men gathered around a little table, playing cards, and whoever lost had to pick a cup to drink from—if they chose the poisoned cup, there was a high chance that they might die. Luckily, most of the men had developed a resistance or an immunity to poisons.

She doubted that there was anything she could do to heighten her chances for this cup.

Taking it from Duncan with a pursing of her lips, Mauve's eyes drifted down to Daveth, trying to see the beat of his pulse in his neck. It was faint, but still there. Focusing on that, she brought the rim of the chalice to her lips and tipped it back, chugging what was left of the liquid and then dropping the goblet.

Her mouth began to salivate, and the frothy spittle threatened to choke her unless she bent forward and allowed some of it to ooze out the side of her mouth. She hissed and she spat, coughing and gagging on the wretched fluid. Heightened senses were blotted out by the foul substance, her ears rang, her nose began to bleed, and she felt hoarse and drowned all at once. Stumbling on her feet, the kossith woman caught herself on the edge of the makeshift stone table, trying to ease her fall to the ground as best as she could. All the while, through her swirling vision, she could see Duncan and Alistair standing there, watching both her and Daveth.

With another bout of resentment welling up inside of her, Mauve fought her blackening vision until the poison inside of her finally took root, making her slump with a growled sigh.

* * *

o0O-O0o-o0O-O0o

* * *

Fidgeting nervously, Alistair waited several moments before stooping down next to Mauve's slumped form, pressing his fingertip against the side of her neck to feel for a pulse. She lived, too. Despite himself, and despite the knowledge of the upcoming battle that very well could have made the entire ritual useless, Alistair felt joy for them. They were alive, and they might yet see another sunrise if the army made it through the night.

"Only one dead, then, and not even from the juice," Alistair smiled, looking over his shoulder at Duncan. The older man didn't seem to share his newfound enthusiasm, and instead looked exhausted and worn. He had seen the same look on his face when he had taken his own joining, but now he wondered if Duncan's face would ever look any different.

"Do you think that Genevieve is okay? Should we go looking for her?" Alistair prompted his commander.

"She's fine," Duncan drew in a deep breath, bringing a hand up to rub at his stubble, "We're all going to be fine," he exhaled slowly, turning away from the junior wardens to follow the path Genevieve had taken, "See to it that when they wake up, you get them to a cot and give them water," he ordered over his shoulder.

Alistair watched after Duncan until he was out of sight, then looked back at Daveth and Mauve, watching as they began to stir in their forced slumber, muscles twitching aggressively, tiny groans working their way out of the pair as they tried to work their way to consciousness.

"All going to be fine…" Alistair repeated, then pursed his lips, head shaking, "Maker, I hope he's right."


End file.
